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Hawkman
02-21-2010, 05:47 AM
Battlefields

Of my grandsire’s generation
There are none now who remain
That knew first-hand
The Great War’s far futility and pain.
Long years passed
Then in their footsteps, through the muddy fields I walked,
At Ypres, The Somme and Passiondale,
And there beheld their graves,
A crop of stone
Proclaiming tenure now of all they own.

Theirs the memory of death
Of faithful duty, comradeship preserved,
In alien soil, made sacred by their blood,
They sleep.
Sheltered, no less than they deserved,
They dream of life unlived, of innocence resigned,
Untarnished vistas rolling out beneath clear skies.
Yet tears still fall, the gift of those whose hearts,
Their ghostly hands may touch,
Remember us they say, is this too much?


The Brass Candlestick

At Arras I was found
Mid the wreckage of the town
For this candlestick was saved
And with place and date engraved,
Made a handy souvenir
When emblazoned with the year
1916

A Tommy’s trophy made
He took me home; he wouldn’t trade
And on his mantle did I rest
When he died, his son’s bequest
So now I sit in state
Next to all the other plate
In 2010

I’ve had a knock or two,
And been mended through and through
I’ve been soldered once or twice
Even straightened in a vice
But I know that I am treasured
In this family’s years I’m measured
94

breathtest
02-21-2010, 08:28 AM
these are beautiful odes to those who fought in the war. I don't think anything more should be said. very sad

Hawkman
02-21-2010, 09:59 AM
Glad you liked them. My great Uncle fell at Leuze Wood, 16th September 1916, during the battle of the Somme. His name is one of thousands enscribed on the Thiepval Memorial for those with no known grave. He's in good company, H.H. Munro (Saki) is there, so is Charles Dickens' Grandson (Also Killed a Leuze Wood, though a few days before Uncle Fred.)

My Grandfather was a sapper and survived the war. The Candlestick was his and now graces my father's mantlepiece.

Bar22do
02-21-2010, 04:57 PM
Sad realities of wars. And sad well reading well penned tribute... thank you.

Hawkman
02-27-2010, 11:32 AM
Vimy Ridge

Statue
Why do you still weep
When those who carved you
Long since dust
Crave not
The sympathy of stone?
I mourn the dead, she said

But
This place is glorious
Against the blue
The bright white rock
Hewn into soaring pylons
Pierces the sky
And on the walls
Names
In their thousands
Can there be glory in so many
Cruelly slain?

No
Though each death touched a heart
For them we stand
I and my fellows
Counting not the passing years
Here
To remind the living
Guarding memory
We show man in stark beauty
His extremes
The worst with best

PrinceMyshkin
02-28-2010, 03:57 PM
Vimy Ridge

Statue
Why do you still weep
When those who carved you
Long since dust
Crave not
The sympathy of stone?
I mourn the dead, she said

But
This place is glorious
Against the blue
The bright white rock
Hewn into soaring pylons
Pierces the sky
And on the walls
Names
In their thousands
Can there be glory in so many
Cruelly slain?

No
Though each death touched a heart
For them we stand
I and my fellows
Counting not the passing years
Here
To remind the living
Guarding memory
We show man in stark beauty
His extremes
The worst with best

I'm not partial to having the moral drawn so clearly in the last two lines, apart from which this and the earlier two re WWI are very moving. In "The Brass Candlestick" I worked out that the final "94" were the number of years since the death you speak of but I think it's fatal when a reader has to stop and figure something out just when he ought to be struck by the final line or image.

Hawkman
02-28-2010, 04:41 PM
Thanks for your observations and comments. By the way, the final 94 just refers to the number of years the candlestick has been in the family. Leuze Wood was in a different sector of the front from Arras. I painted myself into a corner with the numerical divice terminating the previous stanzas, although I like the Kiplingesque, marching-rhythm.

As for 'Vimy Ridge' I was never happy with the last line but I was more afraid that the dialectic device of a rhetorical conversation which the poem hangs upon might be deemed pretentious or at best, contrived. The fact that you have not picked up on this is reassuring.

Thanks again.