Poems of the Great War Read online

  beyond the ridge,

  Knowing their feet had

  come to the end of the

  world.

  Marvelling they stood, and

  watched the long grass

  swirled

  By the May breeze,

  murmurous with wasp

  and midge,

  For though the summer

  oozed into their veins

  Like the injected drug for

  their bones’ pains,

  Sharp on their souls hung

  the imminent line of

  grass,

  Fearfully flashed the sky’s

  mysterious glass.

  Hour after hour they

  ponder the warm field –

  And the far valley behind,

  where the buttercups

  Had blessed with gold their

  slow boots coming up,

  Where even the little

  brambles would not yield,

  But clutched and clung to

  them like sorrowing

  hands;

  They breathe like trees

  unstirred.

  Till like a cold gust thrilled

  the little word

  At which each body and its

  soul begird

  And tighten them for battle.

  No alarms

  Of bugles, no high flags, no

  clamorous haste —

  Only a lift and flare of eyes

  that faced

  The sun, like a friend with

  whom their love is done.

  O larger shone that smile

  against the sun, —

  Mightier than his whose

  bounty these have

  spurned.

  So, soon they topped the

  hill, and raced together

  Over an open stretch of

  herb and heather

  Exposed. And instantly the

  whole sky burned

  With fury against them; and

  soft sudden cups

  Opened in thousands for

  their blood; and the green

  slopes

  Chasmed and steepened

  sheer to infinite space.

  Of them who running on

  that last high place

  Leapt to swift unseen

  bullets, or went up

  On the hot blast and fury of

  hell’s upsurge.

  Or plunged and fell away

  past this world’s verge,

  Some say God caught them

  even before they fell.

  But what say such as from

  existence’ brink

  Ventured but drave too

  swift to sink.

  The few who rushed in the

  body to enter hell,

  And there out-fiending all

  its fiends and flames

  With superhuman

  inhumanities,

  Long-famous glories,

  immemorial shames —

  And crawling slowly back,

  have by degree

  Regained cool peaceful air

  in wonder —

  Why speak they not of

  comrades that went

  under?

  —1918

  Wilfred Gibson

  (1878–1962)

  Air-Raid

  Wilfred Gibson

  Night shatters in mid-

  heaven: the bark of guns,

  The roar of planes, the

  crash of bombs, and all

  The unshackled skiey

  pandemonium stuns

  The senses to indifference,

  when a fall

  Of masonry nearby startles

  awake,

  Tingling, wide-eyed,

  prick-eared, with

  bristling hair,

  Each sense within the body,

  crouched aware

  Like some sore-hunted

  creature in the brake.

  Yet side by side we lie in the

  little room

  Just touching hands, with

  eyes and ears that strain

  Keenly, yet dream-

  bewildered, through

  tense gloom,

  Listening, in helpless

  stupor of insane

  Cracked nightmares panic,

  fantastically wild,

  To the quiet breathing of

  our sleeping child.

  —1919

  Ivor Gurney

  (1890–1937)

  To the Poet Before Battle

  Ivor Gurney

  Now, Youth, the hour of thy

  dread passion comes,

  Thy lovely things must all

  be laid away;

  And thou, as others, must

  face the riven day

  Unstirred by the tattle and

  rattle of rolling drums,

  Or bugles’ strident cry.

  When mere noise numbs

  The sense of being, the

  fear-sick soul doth sway,

  Remember thy great craft’s

  honour, that they may say

  Nothing in shame of Poets.

  Then the crumbs

  Of praise the little

  versemen joyed to take

  Shall be forgotten; then

  they must know we are,

  For all our skill in words,

  equal in might

  And strong of mettle as

  those we honoured; make

  The name of Poet terrible in

  just War,

  And like a crown of honour

  upon the fight.

  —1915

  Pain

  Ivor Gurney

  Pain, pain continued; pain

  unending;

  Hard even to the roughest,

  but to those

  Hungry for beauty . . . Not

  the wisest knows,

  Nor most pitiful-hearted,

  what the wending

  Of one hour’s way meant.

  Grey monotony lending

  Weight to the grey skies,

  grey mud where goes

  An army of grey bedrenched

  scarecrows in rows

  Careless at last of cruellest

  Fate-sending.

  Seeing the pitiful eyes of

  men foredone,

  Or horses shot, too tired

  merely to stir,

  Dying in shell-holes both,

  slain by the mud.

  Men broken, shrieking even

  to hear a gun. —

  Till pain grinds down, or

  lethargy numbs her,

  The amazed heart cries

  angrily out on God.

  —1917

  The Dearness of Common Things

  Ivor Gurney

  The dearness of common

  things,

  Beech wood, tea, plate

  shelves,

  And the whole family of

  crockery,

  Woodaxes, blades, helves.

  Ivory milk, earth’s coffee,

  The white face of books

  And the touch, feel, smell of

  paper,

  Latin’s lovely looks.

  Earth fine to handle.

  The touch of clouds

  When the imagined arm

  leaps out to caress

  Grey worsted or wool

  clouds.

  Wool, rope, cloth, old pipes

  Gone warped in service

  And the one herb of tobacco,

  The herb of grace, the censer

  weed

  Of blue whorls, finger-traced

  curves —

  The touch of sight how

  strange and marvellous

  To any blind man pierced

  through his opaque,

  When concrete objects grow.

  —1919–1922

  The Target

  Ivor Gurney

&nb
sp; I shot him, and it had to be

  One of us! “Twas him or me.

  Couldn’t be helped,’ and

  none can blame

  Me, for you would do the

  same.

  My mother, she can’t sleep

  for fear

  Of what might be

  a-happening here

  To me. Perhaps it might be

  best

  To die, and set her fears at

  rest.

  For worst is worst, and

  worry’s done.

  Perhaps he was the only

  son . . .

  Yet God keeps still, and

  does not say

  A word of guidance any way.

  Well, if they get me, first I’ll

  find

  That boy, and tell him all

  my mind,

  And see who felt the bullet

  worst,

  And ask his pardon, if I

  durst.

  All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.

  A man might rave, or shout,

  or sob;

  And God He takes no sort of

  heed.

  This is a bloody mess

  indeed.

  —1917

  First Time In

  Ivor Gurney

  After the dread tales and

  red yarns of the Line

  Anything might have come

  to us; but the divine

  Afterglow brought us up to

  a Welsh colony

  Hiding in sandbag ditches,

  whispering consolatory

  Soft foreign things. Then we

  were taken in

  To low huts candle-lit,

  shaded close by slitten

  Oilsheets, and there the

  boys gave us kind

  welcome;

  So that we looked out as

  from the edge of home.

  Sang us Welsh things, and

  changed all former

  notions

  To human hopeful things.

  And the next day’s guns

  Nor any line-pangs ever

  quite could blot out

  That strangely beautiful

  entry to war’s rout;

  Candles they gave us,

  precious and shared

  over-rations —

  Ulysses found little more in

  his wanderings without

  doubt.

  ‘David of the White Rock’,

  the ‘Slumber Song’ so

  soft, and that

  Beautiful tune to which

  roguish words by Welsh

  pit boys

  Are sung — but never more

  beautiful than here under

  the guns’ noise.

  —1916

  Robert Graves

  (1895–1985)

  When I’m Killed

  Robert Graves

  When I’m killed, don’t think

  of me

  Buried there in Cambrin

  Wood,

  Nor as in Zion think of me

  With the Intolerable Good.

  And there’s one thing that I

  know well,

  I’m damned if I’ll be

  damned to Hell!

  So when I’m killed, don’t

  wait for me,

  Walking the dim corridor;

  In Heaven or Hell, don’t

  wait for me,

  Or you must wait for

  evermore.

  You’ll find me buried,

  living-dead

  In these verses that you’ve

  read.

  So when I’m killed, don’t

  mourn for me,

  Shot, poor lad, so bold and

  young,

  Killed and gone – don’t

  mourn for me.

  On your lips my life is hung:

  O friends and lovers, you

  can save

  Your playfellow from the

  grave.

  —1916

  The Assault Heroic

  Robert Graves

  Down in the mud I lay,

  Tired out by my long day

  Of five damned days and nights,

  Five sleepless days and

  nights, . . .

  Dream-snatched, and set

  me where

  The dungeon of Despair

  Looms over Desolate Sea,

  Frowning and threatening

  me

  With aspect high and

  steep —

  A most malignant keep.

  My foes that lay within

  Shouted and made a din,

  Hooted and grinned and

  cried:

  “Today we’ve killed your

  pride;

  Today your ardour ends.

  We’ve murdered all your

  friends;

  We’ve undermined by

  stealth

  Your happiness and your

  health.

  We’ve taken away your

  hope;

  Now you may droop and

  mope

  To misery and to Death.’

  But with my spear of Faith,

  Stout as an oaken rafter,

  With my round shield of

  laughter,

  With my sharp, tongue-like

  sword

  That speaks a bitter word,

  I stood beneath the wall

  And there defied them all.

  The stones they cast I

  caught

  And alchemized with

  thought

  Into such lumps of gold

  As dreaming misers hold.

  The boiling oil they threw

  Fell in a shower of dew,

  Refreshing me; the spears

  Flew harmless by my ears,

  Struck quivering in the sod;

  There, like the prophet’s

  rod,

  Put leaves out, took firm

  root,

  And bore me instant fruit.

  My foes were all astounded,

  Dumbstricken and

  confounded,

  Gaping in a long row;

  They dared not thrust nor

  throw.

  Thus, then, I climbed a

  steep

  Buttress and won the keep,

  And laughed and proudly

  blew

  My horn, ‘Stand to! Stand

  to!

  Wake up, sir! Here’s a new

  Attack! Stand to! Stand to!’

  —1918

  Corporal Stare

  Robert Graves

  Back from the line one

  night in June,

  I gave a dinner at Bethune—

  Seven courses, the most

  gorgeous meal

  Money could buy or batman

  steal.

  Five hungry lads welcomed

  the fish

  With shouts that nearly

  cracked the dish;

  Asparagus came with

  tender tops,

  Strawberries in cream, and

  mutton chops,

  Said Jenkins, as my hand he

  shook,

  “They’ll put this in the

  history book.”

  We bawled Church anthems

  in choro

  Of Bethlehem and Hermon

  snow,

  With drinking songs, a jolly

  sound

  To help the good red

  Pommard round.

  Stories and laughter

  interspersed,

  We drowned a long La

  Bassée thirst—

  Trenches in June make

  throats damned dry.

  Then through the window

  suddenly,

  Badge, stripes and medals

  all complete,

  We saw him swagger up the

  street,

&n
bsp; Just like a live man—

  Corporal Stare!

  Stare! Killed last May at

  Festaubert.

  Caught on patrol near the

  Boche wire,

  Torn horribly by machine-

  gun fire!

  He paused, saluted smartly,

  grinned,

  Then passed away like a

  puff of wind,

  Leaving us blank

  astonishment.

  The song broke, up we

  started, leant

  Out of the window—nothing

  there,

  Not the least shadow of

  Corporal Stare,

  Only a quiver of smoke that

  showed

  A fag-end dropped on the

  silent road.

  —1918

  Recalling War

  Robert Graves

  Entrance and exit wounds

  are silvered clean,

  The track aches only when

  the rain reminds.

  The one-legged man forgets

  his leg of wood,

  The one-armed man his

  jointed wooden arm.

  The blinded man sees with

  his ears and hands

  As much or more than once

  with both his eyes.

  Their war was fought these

  twenty years ago

  And now assumes the

  nature-look of time,

  As when the morning

  traveller turns and views

  His wild night-stumbling

  carved into a hill.

  What then, was war? No

  mere discord of flags

  But an infection of the

  common sky

  That sagged ominously

  upon the earth

  Even when the season was

  the airiest May.

  Down pressed the sky, and

  we, oppressed, thrust out

  Boastful tongue, clenched

  fist and valiant yard.

  Natural infirmities were out

  of mode,

  For Death was young again;

  patron alone

  Of healthy dying,

  premature fate-spasm.

  Fear made fine bed-fellows.

  Sick with delight

  At life’s discovered

  transitoriness,

  Our youth became all-flesh

  and waived the mind.

  Never was such antiqueness

  of romance,

  Such tasty honey oozing

  from the heart.

  And old importances came

  swimming back —

  Wine, meat, log-fires, a roof

  over the head,

  A weapon at the thigh,

  surgeons at call.

  Even there was a use again

  for God —

  A word of rage in lack of

  meat, wine, fire,

  In ache of wounds beyond