Thread: Poetry? Maybe it isn't all arty farty bull?

Marvellous poem JDL.

for my a level english course work im looking at modern war poery and daries of soldiers and then turning them into poetry . When ive finnaly finished writting them im going to post them on here somewhere and id really appreciate your feed back much love to you all xox

Crimbo - you have been busy. I particularly liked "Of Course".

Caz - wish you all the best with that course work. Sounds like an excellent project.

And now, because I am worse than useless at writing anything myself, over to Kate Bush:

B.f.p.o.*
Army dreamers.
Mammys hero.
B.f.p.o.
Mammys hero.

Our little army boy
Is coming home from b.f.p.o.
Ive a bunch of purple flowers
To decorate a mammys hero.

Mourning in the aerodrome,
The weather warmer, he is colder.
Four men in uniform
To carry home my little soldier.

What could he do?
Should have been a rock star.
But he didnt have the money for a guitar.
What could he do?
Should have been a politician.
But he never had a proper education.
What could he do?
Should have been a father.
But he never even made it to his twenties.
What a waste --
Army dreamers.
Ooh, what a waste of
Army dreamers.

Tears oer a tin box.
Oh, jesus christ, he wasnt to know,
Like a chicken with a fox,
He couldnt win the war with ego.

Give the kid the pick of pips,
And give him all your stripes and ribbons.
Now hes sitting in his hole,
He might as well have buttons and bows.

What could he do?
Should have been a rock star.
But he didnt have the money for a guitar.
What could he do?
Should have been a politician.
But he never had a proper education.
What could he do?
Should have been a father.
But he never even made it to his twenties.
What a waste --
Army dreamers.
Ooh, what a waste of
Army dreamers.
Ooh, what a waste of all that
Army dreamers,
Army dreamers,
Army dreamers, oh...

Originally Posted by joey_deacons_lad

The best poem i have ever read is there any more of his works online i cant find any

They're difficult to find. Here are some more:

The Voice of the Guns

We are the guns, and your masters! Saw ye our flashes?
Heard ye the scream of our shells in the night, and the shuddering crashes?
Saw ye our work by the roadside, the shrouded things lying,
Moaning to God that He made them---the maimed and the dying?
Husbands and sons,
Fathers and lovers, we break them. We are the guns!

We are the guns and ye serve us. Dare ye grow weary,
Steadfast at night-time, at noon-time, or waking when dawn winds blow dreary
Across the reeds and the muds and the flats of the barrier-water,
To wait on the hour of our choosing, the minute decided for slaughter?
Swift, the clock runs...
Yea, to the ultimate second. Stand by your guns!

We are the guns, and we need you; here, in the timbered
Pits that are screened by the crest, and the copse where at dusk ye unlimbered;
Pits that one found us -- and, finding, gave life. (Did he flinch from the giving?)
Ere, with the sun's
Rising, the sorrowful spirit abandoned its guns.

Who but the guns shall avenge him? Battery-action!
Load us and lay to the centermost hair of the dial-sight's refraction
Set your quick hands to our levers to compass the sped soul's assoiling:
Brace your taught limbs to the shock when the thrust of the barrel recoiling
Deafens and stuns!
Vengeance is ours for our servants; trust ye the guns.

Least of our bond-slaves or greatest, grudge ye the burden?
Hard is the service of ours which has only our service for guerdon?
Grow the limbs lax, and unsteady the hands, which aforetime we trusted?
Dominate ones,
Are we not tried serfs and proven -- true to our guns?

Ye are the guns! Are we worthy? Shall not these speak for us
Out of the wood where the tree-trunks are slashed with the vain bolts that seek for us;
Thunder of batteries firing in unison, swish of shell flighting,
Hissing that rushes to silence and breaks to the thud of alighting;
Death that outruns
Horsemen and foot? Are we justified? Answer O guns!

Yea! By our works are ye justified -- toil unrelieved;
Manifold labours, co-ordinate each to the sending achieved;
Discipline, not of the feet but the soul, unremitting unfeigned;
Tortures unholy by flame and by maiming unknown, faced and distained;
Courage that shuns
Only foolhardiness; even by these are ye worthy your guns.

Wherefore -- and unto ye only power hath been given;
Yea! Beyond man, over men, over desolate cities and riven;
Yea! Beyond space, over earth and the seas and the sky's dominions;
Yea! Beyond time, over Hell and the fiends and the Death-Angel's pinions.
Vigilant ones,
Loose them, and shatter, and spare not. We are the Guns!


Headquarters

A league and a league from the trenches -- from the traversed maze of the lines,
Where daylong the sniper watches and daylong the bullet whines,
And the cratered earth is in travail with mines and with countermines --

Here, where haply some woman dreamed (are those her roses that bloom
In the garden beyond the windows of my littered working room?)
We have decked the map for our masters as a bride is decked for the groom.

Fair, on each lettered numbered square -- crossroad and mound and wire,
Loophole, redoubt, and emplacement -- lie the targets their mouths desire;
Gay with purples and browns and blues, have we traced them their arcs of fire.

And ever the type-keys chatter; and ever our keen wires bring
Word from the watchers a-crouch below, word from the watchers a-wing:
And ever we hear the distant growl of our hid guns thundering.

Hear it hardly, and turn again to our maps, where the trench lines crawl,
Red on the gray and each with a sign for the ranging shrapnel's fall --
Snakes that our masters shall scotch at down, as is written here on the wall.

For the weeks of our waiting draw to a close. . . . There is scarcely a leaf astir
In the garden beyond my windows, where the twilight shadows blur
The blaze of some woman's roses. . . . "Bombardment orders, sir."


The Deserter

‘I’m sorry I done it, Major.’
We bandaged the livid face;
And led him out, ere the wan sun rose,
To die his death of ignorance.

The bolt-heads locked to the cartridges;
The rifles stead to rest,
As cold stock nestled at colder cheek
And foresight lined on the breast.

‘Fire’ called the Sergeant-Major.
The muzzles flamed as he spoke:
And the shameless soul of a nameless man
Went up in cordite-smoke.

In Barracks


The barrack-square, washed clean with rain,
Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold.
Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold,
March and wheel and march again.
The sun looks over the barrack gate,
Warm and white with glaring shine,
To watch the soldiers of the Line
That life has hired to fight with fate.

Fall out: the long parades are done.
Up comes the dark; down goes the sun.
The square is walled with windowed light.
Sleep well, you lusty Fusiliers;
Shut your brave eyes on sense and sight,
And banish from your dreamless ears
The bugle’s dying notes that say,
‘Another night; another day.’

Siegfried Sassoon

A Helping Hand

Blinking faintly just a spot
a distant light or maybe not
Is it them come back for more
or is it mates in teams of four

I crawl a bit to hide my form
and nearer still the light comes on
Nearer yet to me it gets
I check my rifle prepare for threat

Then quietly a voice I hear
“come on son, have no fear�
A friendly voice thank god for that
I prepare to move from where I’m sat

The voice gets nearer almost here
I know I’m saved I lose my fear
I see a person just ahead
ready to move (my legs feel dead)

Now I see him now he’s here
his face I know but still I peer
“I came to get you don’t be scared
your job is done, you’ve been spared�

I take his hand my legs now work
I stand beside him and start to smirk
I see some others coming through
there’s old man Stan and Connor too

And as I walk with him a while
I see more mates and start to smile
But all these mates weren’t they dead?
Have I been injured lost my head?

How obvious it soon became
Mohamed, Allah, Christ (just names)
Standing there with all my squad
The hand I took was that of God

Mac Macdonald

A Soldier's Prayer

Look God: I have never spoken to You,
But now I want to say, "How do You do."
You see God, they told me You did not exist;
And, like a fool, I believed all of this.
Last night from a shell hole I saw Your sky;
I figured right then they had told me a lie.
Had I taken the time to see the things You made,
I would know they weren't calling a spade a spade.
I wonder, God, if You would shake my hand;
Somehow, I feel that You will understand.
Strange, I had to come to this hellish place
Before I had time to see Your face.
Well, I guess there isn't much more to say,
But I am sure glad, God, I met You today.
I guess the zero hour will soon be here,
But I am not afraid since I know You are near.
The signal - well, God, I will have to go;
I love you lots, this I want you to know.
Looks like this will be a horrible fight;
Who knows, I may come to your house tonight.
Though I wasn't friendly with you before,
I wonder, God, if you would wait at the door.
Look, I am crying, me shedding tears!
I wish I had known you these many years.
Well, I will have to go now, God.
Goodbye - Strange, since I met you,
I am not afraid to die.

...Author Unknown

You and Him
Your alarm goes off, you hit the snooze and sleep for another 10 minutes.
He stays up for days on end.
You take a warm shower to help you wake up.
He goes days or weeks without running water.
You complain of a "headache", and call in sick.
He gets shot at as others are hit, and keeps moving forward.
You put on your 'Anti war/Don't support the troops' shirt, and go meet up with your friends.He still fights for your right to wear that shirt.
You make sure you're cell phone is in your pocket.
He clutches the cross hanging on his chain next to his dog tags.
You talk trash about your "buddies" that aren't with you.
He knows he may not see some of his buddies again.
You walk down the beach, staring at all the pretty girls.
He walks the streets, searching for insurgents and terrorists.
You complain about how hot it is.
He wears his heavy gear, not daring to take off his helmet to wipe his brow.
You go out to lunch, and complain because the restaurant got your order wrong.
He doesn't get to eat today.
Your maid makes your bed and washes your clothes.
He wears the same things for weeks, but makes sure his weapons are clean.
You go to the mall and get your hair redone.
He doesn't have time to brush his teeth today.
You're angry because your class ran 5 minutes over.
He's told he will be held over an extra 2 months.
You call your girlfriend and set a date for tonight.
He waits for the mail to see if there is a letter from home.
You hug and kiss your girlfriend, like you do everyday.
He holds his letter close and smells his love's perfume.
You roll your eyes as a baby cries.
He gets a letter with pictures of his new child, and wonders if they'll ever meet.
You criticize your government, and say that war never solves anything.
He sees the innocent tortured and killed by their own people and remembers why he is fighting.
You hear the jokes about the war, and make fun of men like him.
He hears the gunfire, bombs and screams of the wounded.
You see only what the media wants you to see.
He sees the broken bodies lying around him.
You are asked to go to the store by your parents. You don't.
He does exactly what he is told.
You stay at home and watch TV.
He takes whatever time he is given to call, write home, sleep, and eat.
You crawl into your soft bed, with down pillows, and get comfortable.
He crawls under a tank for shade and a 5 minute nap, only to be woken by gunfire.
You sit there and judge him, saying the world is probably a worse place because of men like him. If only there were more men like him!

Dear Caz, Car bumper sticker.

If you can read this thank a teacher
If it's in English thank a soldier

Originally Posted by The-Lord-Flasheart

Originally Posted by kaka

dribble, dribble, copy, paste

Flashearts Prayer

Chubb is a cunt who has been know to lie
If she keeps posting, she will surely die

I WANT TO BE A PILOT

I’d love to be a pilot
I want to learn to fly
In a west land lynx helicopter
I’ll take up to the sky

I’ve dreamt had a gift ride
To A.A.C Training School I went
In an helicopter I soared up high
Then made a smooth descent

The pilot LFH wore his headset
Pilots gloves adorned each hand
A plotter marked out the headings
On the maps so we could land

I’ll have to get a logbook
A licence holder too
DVD’s, books and videos
To learn what I should do

Some pilots use a GPS
Have helmets on their heads
Wear special shirts and UNIFORM
Complete with epaulets

Aviator glasses are a flying must
And a watch would be a start
Ear defenders, licence holder
I’d really look the part

Yes, I’d love to be a pilot
I want to learn to fly
In west land lynx helicopter
I’ll take up to the sky

(Author Unknown )

I am resurrecting this thread to add 'Lie in the dark and listen' by Noel Coward (yes, him) because I heard it on Poetry Please yesterday, and I had not heard it since school, and it still gives me shivers. And I know it's about the RAF, but stretch a point...

Lie in the dark and listen
by Noel Coward

Lie in the dark and listen
It’s clear tonight so they’re flying high
Hundreds of them, thousands perhaps
Riding the icy, moonlit sky
Men, machinery, bombs and maps
Altimeters and guns and charts
Coffee, sandwiches, fleece-lined boots
Bones and muscle and minds and hearts
English saplings with English roots
Deep in the earth they’ve left below
Lie in the dark and let them go
Lie in the dark and listen.

Lie in the dark and listen
They’re going over in waves and waves
High above villages, hills and streams
Country churches and little graves
And little citizens’ worried dreams
Very soon they’ll have reached the sea
And far below them lies the haze
And cliffs and sands where they used to be
Taken for summer holidays
Lie in the dark and let them go
Theirs’ is a world we’ll never know
Lie in the dark and listen.

Lie in the dark and listen
City magnates and steel contractors
Factory workers and politicians
Soft hysterical little actors,
Ballet dancers, reserved musicians
Safe in your warm civilian beds
Count your profits and count your sheep
Life is passing over your heads
Just turn over and try to sleep
Lie in the dark and let them go
There’s one debt you’ll forever owe
Lie in the dark and listen

Thought I might add one of my own poems to this thread, from my book ' Poems for Paula '
http://lulu.com/content/2641854


[align=justify]' CONTACT...WAIT OUT ! '


‘ Big bird, big bird, hot zone ‘
I scream into the mike
Can’t let the chopper land here
And let the enemy strike


Not fair to put their lives at risk
It’s bad enough our own
Fifteen British soldiers
Ambushed and alone


‘ Helmund Province ‘ we were told
Was quiet this dark night
‘ Patrol the eastern valley,
Till early morning light ‘


Then came the first explosion
‘ Big Jimmy ‘ taken out
Walking proud one minute
He was our best lead scout


‘ Zero, this is Bravo-three,
Contact, hit, wait out ‘
I scream into my radio
So much noise I shout


‘ Gormless Eddie ‘ next man down
Hit by one stray round
Though heavily outnumbered
He stood and fought his ground


‘ Medic, Medic ‘ came the shout
A screaming comrade dying
A medic crying for himself
He died by me whilst trying


We were going down like flies
An ambush perfect set
Caught out in the open
No cover we could get


‘ Chippy, Chalky, Half-pint ‘
They went down one by one
By then I’d just stopped counting
My mind switched off and gone


This was my nineteenth birthday
My last year as a teen
A battle hardened soldier
Such horrors I have seen


To watch your best friends blown apart
Their blood, and limbs, and bone
The nightmares of the battlefield
I just want to go home


Nine young soldiers lost that night
Though some of us survived
Four were badly wounded
But six of us alive


And in the next day’s papers
Small paragraph’s re-formed
‘ Nine brave soldiers lost their lives,
Next-of-kin informed ! ‘



All our Soldiers

Tom Mcgreevy [/align]

My second book: ' I'm a Soldier...get me out of here ! ' is at the Publisher's right now, and is due out at the end of this month ( March 09 )

POETRY FROM TOM MCGREEVY
http://poetryfromtommcgreevy.weebly.com

Originally Posted by KevinB

THE SECOND COMING
W.B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

One of my favourite poems of Yeats, along with Easter 1916. It is open to a variety of interpretations. Although no expert on the poet, I tend to think he did not mean the second coming of Christ at all, but instead the end of the Christian era, followed by an age perhaps ruled totally by man and technology.

Can I add Sir Philip Sidney 1554-1586 he was a Soldier, Poet and Writer.

Against the Fear of Death

Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve
As nature's work, why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain, but when it may preserve,
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might,
While each conceit an ugly figure bears,
Which were not ill, well viewed in reason's light.
Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,
Let them be cleared: and now begin to see,
Our life is but a step in dusty way.
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind;
Since this we feel, great loss we cannot find.

A personal favourite of mine. Last spoken over my father's grave.

Self Medicate

Most of the old boys days are fine but some are like this.

Pull up the collar
Pull down the hat
Trudge through the streets
Till you forget where your at

Order a vodka
Order a beer
Remember the memories
Just forget in which year

Sit in the corner
Away from the door
Dont Look at the people
Just look at the floor

Feeling the feeling
That filled you that day
Stared at the corpses
Could not look away

The twisted contorted agonies of death
The mouth frozen open expelling last breath
The hand like a claw grasping at sky
The earth a red carpet on which they both lie

The pulp and the matter
In which was their life
Is spread out around them
This man and his wife

For Christ sake barman
Just pour till it stops
Leave the bottle on the table
And dont call the cops