General Chat

A very moving poem with Remembrance Day in mind.

THE FINAL INSPECTION

The soldier stood and faced God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.
...
"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To my Church have you been true?

The soldier squared his shoulders
And said, "No Lord I guess I ain't
Because those of us who carry guns
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was tough,
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep.
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help
Though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here,
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand,
I never expected or had too much;
But if you don't I'll understand".

There was silence around the throne
Where the saints had often trod
As the soldier waited quietly
For the judgement of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in hell.

Anon.

Aww Sue, thats lovely and sad at the same time

This poem has always stuck in my mind.

Does it Matter? by Siegfried Sassoon

Does it matter?-losing your legs?
For people will always be kind.
And you need not show that you mind
when others come in after hunting,
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter?-losing your sight?
There's such splended work for the blind
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?-those dreams from the pit?
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad,
For they'll know you fought for your country,
And no one will worry a bit.

This makes me cry ( so I'm posting it without reading lol).....

To a Bull-Dog by John Collings Squire


We shan't see Willy any more, Mamie,
He won't be coming any more:
He came back once and again and again,
But he won't get leave any more.

We looked from the window and there was his cab,
And we ran downstairs like a streak,
And he said, 'Hullo, you bad dog,' and you crouched to the floor,
Paralysed to hear him speak.

And then let fly at his face and his chest
Till I had to hold you down,
While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat,
And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.

We went upstairs to the studio,
The three of us, just as of old,
And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
As round the room he strolled.

Here in the room where, years ago
Before the old life stopped,
He worked all day with his slippers and his pipe,
He would pick up the threads he'd dropped,

Fondling all the drawings he had left behind,
Glad to find them all still the same,
And opening the cupboards to look at his belongings
. . . Every time he came.

But now I know what a dog doesn't know,
Though you'll thrust your head on my knee,
And try to draw me from the absent-mindedness
That you find so dull in me.

And all your life, you will never know
What I wouldn't tell you even if I could,
That the last time we waved him away
Willy went for good.

But sometimes as you lie on the hearthrug
Sleeping in the warmth of the stove,
Even through your muddled old canine brain
Shapes from the past may rove.

You'll scarcely remember, even in a dream,
How we brought home a silly little pup,
With a big square head and little crooked legs
That could scarcely bear him up,

But your tail will tap at the memory
Of a man whose friend you were,
Who was always kind though he called you a naughty dog
When he found you in his chair;

Who'd make you face a reproving finger
And solemnly lecture you
Till your head hung downwards and you looked very sheepish:
And you'll dream of your triumphs too,

Of summer evening chases in the garden
When you dodged us all about with a bone:
We were three boys, and you were the cleverest,
But now we're two alone.

When summer comes again,
And the long sunsets fade,
We shall have to go on playing the feeble game for two
That since the war we've played.

And though you run expectant as you always do
To the uniforms we meet,
You'll never find Willy among all the soldiers
In even the longest street,

Nor in any crowd; yet, strange and bitter thought,
Even now were the old words said,
If I tried the old trick and said, 'Where's Willy?'
You would quiver and lift your head,

And your brown eyes would look to ask if I was serious
And wait for the word to spring.
Sleep undisturbed: I shan't say that again,
You innocent old thing.

I must sit, not speaking, on the sofa,
While you lie asleep on the floor;
For he's suffered a thing that dogs couldn't dream of,
And he won't be coming here any more.

note (W.H.S., Capt. (Acting Major) R.F.A.; killed April 12, 1917)

I was born & raised in Ireland where the air is fresh & clean,
In the village of Dureen near the town of Skibereen.

I always had the best of food & never liked the pan.
I grew up healthily & could cycle with any man.

Oh weren’t they the happy days when I was young & free.
I could dance & sing & have a drink wherever I might be.

Kathleen O’Houlihan was the girl I used to date.
But, because of unemployment, I was forced to emigrate.

It was back in 1960 that I left my childhood home
Determined to achieve success & make it on my own.

I stared work with Wimpey far from home & family
And made new friends & some enemies too across the Irish sea.

Oh well I can remember the day of my first pay.
I joined a jolly bunch of chaps down at the Travellers’ Way.

We drank some pints of Guinness but I’ll always have regrets
Because before I left that tavern, I bought some cigarettes.

For more than 40 years now, I’ve smoked 20 fags a day
Which means I’ve sent up in smoke an awful lot of pay.

I haven’t had a breakfast now for 20 years or so;
Cup of tea, light a fag & off to work I go.

The people whom I’m staying with look after all my needs;
And when I come home each evening, they put up some mighty feeds.

They really shouldn’t bother for my taste buds have disappeared;
And bacon, beef or mutton chops - they all taste kinda weird.

I met a young lad recently - he came from Donegal;
He’s a qualified accountant & thinks he knows it all.

He asked me how many fags I smoke & when I started;
I didn’t take much notice for I was trying to kill my thirst.

He took out his calculator & began to add it up;
T’wasn’t that I asked him - cheeky little pup.

And when he had finished, he looked at me and spoke;
“You have £67k pounds all gone up in smoke”.

Now, £67k is an awful lot of dough;
And to spend it on a poisoned weed is hard to take I know.

I used to think that all my friends would surely be impressed;
But now I think of all that muck I’ve inhaled into my chest.

I can never stop coughing - I even cough all night;
My eyes are kinda watery & my face is deadly white.

My memory has started failing & it’s often I forget;
Oh, what the hell about it - I’ll have another cigarette.

Sometimes I sit & dream awhile when I’m all alone;
About the days when I was young & weighing 13 stones.

I was then in peak condition for cycling was my thing;
And I hoped one day to emulate Stephen Roche or Christy Ring.

Oh God be with those happy days & things that might have been;
Had I the chance to stay at home & work in Skibereen.

Still, it isn’t emigration that’s caused my main regrets;
It’s that day in 1960 when I bought those cigarettes.

I’m lying in intensive care with my body wrecked with pain;
Oh what I would give to see my Irish home again.

In my mind, I have a vision of the fields of new moan hay;
And I see the sun ascending way beyond old Bantry Bay.

The doctor’s been to see me & his face was rather grim;
And the Matron asked me yesterday to name my next of kin.

If only I could breathe again the air I can’t forget;
I swear to God I’d never smoke another cigarette.

My Sons favourite from a very young age.


On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
And the Monkeys all say Boo!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the Trees go Ping!
And the tea pots Jibber Jabber Joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang!
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So it's Ning Nang Nong!
Cows go bong!
Nong Nang Ning!
Trees go Ping!
Nong Ning Nang!
The mice go Clang!
What a noisy place to belong,
Is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

Spike Milligan :-D

"I Have a Rendezvous with Death"

I HAVE a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Alan Seeger. 1888–1916

Alan Seeger was a young American poet who joined the French Foreign Legion. He wrote this poem shortly before he died. He was the uncle of singer/songwriter Pete Seeger.

Sue

Your last post reminded me of a book I read a couple of years ago........it's sort of, a rendezvous with death

....a beautiful book



http://www.booksattransworld.co.uk/thebookthief/

Thank you for the link Gins - I've had a look at it and then checked out Kindle. It's on there so I think I'll get it when I've waded through the books I already have :-)

I have a son in law who is a bookseller - that can be a good and a bad thing :-S

"She stood on the bridge at midnight,
throwing pebbles at the moon,

oh! she said she was a good girl,
but she spoke too ????? ?soon......

Oh dad, I wish my child was born,
then all my troubles would be gorn........

Too many favourites to list but I love this one.

Christina Rossetti
Remember

REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

And one of those things you only find out by chance, she also wrote this.

In the Bleak Midwinter

Christina Rossetti (1872)

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

One I've loved since I was about twelve - so atmospheric

The Listeners

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest's ferny floor;
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Walter de la Mare

And another by the same poet


SOFTLY along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him, 5
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep; 10
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon, 15
Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no-more-pain;
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
"Rest, rest, and rest again."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmoHv8Mf_-o

If..... what I dreamed of at school.

:-D

How brilliant to have a poetry thread again. Bearing in mind the centenary of the outbreak of WW1 I thought I would share this poem with you.

Young Fella me lad.

Where are you going young fella me lad on this glittering morn of May,
I'm going to join the colours dad, they're looking for men they say.
But you're only a boy young fella me lad, you aren't obliged to go,
I am 171/4 dad and ever so strong you know.

So you are off to France young fella me lad, you're looking so fit and bright,
I'm terribly sorry to leave you dad, but I feel that I'm doing right.
God bless you and keep you young fella me lad, you are all of my life you know,
Don't worry, I'll soon be back dear dad, and I'm awfully proud to go.

Why don't you write young fella me lad, I watch for the post each day,
And I miss you so and I'm awfully sad, and it's months since you went away.
And I've had the fire in the parlour lit and I'm keeping it burning bright,
Till my boy comes home, here I sit into the quiet of the night.

What is the matter Young fella me lad, no letter again today.
Why did the postman look so sad and sigh as he turned away.
I heard them tell that we've gained more ground, but a terrible price was paid,
God grant my boy you're safe and sound, but oh I'm afraid, afraid.

They've told me the truth young fella me lad, you'll never come back again.
Oh god the dreams the dreams I had, and the hopes I've nursed in vain.
For you passed in the night young fella me lad, and you proved in the cruel test,
of the screaming shell and the battle hell, that my boy was one of the best.

So you'll live you'll live young fella me lad, in the gleam of the evening star,
In the woods and the wild, in the laugh of a child, and all things sweet that are,
and you'll never die my wonderful boy while life is noble and true,
For all our beauty, hopes and joy, we will owe to lads like you.

.

Ubique (Royal Artillery)

There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may -
'You bike,' 'you bikwe,' 'ubbikwe' - alludin' to R.A.
It serves 'Orse, Field, an' Garrison as motto for a crest,
An' when you've found out all it means I'll tell you 'alf the rest.

Ubique means the long-range Krupp be'ind the low-range 'ill -
Ubique means you'll pick it up an', while you do stand, still.
Ubique means you've caught the flash an' timed it by the sound.
Ubique means five gunners' 'ash before you've loosed a round.

Ubique means Blue Fuse1, an' make the 'ole to sink the trail. 1extreme range
Ubique means stand up an' take the Mauser's 'alf-mile 'ail.
Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can 'old.
Ubique means that 'orse's scream which turns your innards cold.

Ubique means 'Bank, 'Olborn, Bank - a penny all the way -
The soothin' jingle-bump-an'-clank from day to peaceful day.
Ubique means 'They've caught De Wet, an' now we sha'n't be long.'
Ubique means 'I much regret, the beggar's going strong!'

Ubique means the tearin' drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud,
The khaki muzzles duck an' lift across the khaki flood.
Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers.
Ubique means the mirage again an' shellin' all outdoors.

Ubique means 'Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein'!
Ubique means 'Off-load your guns' - at midnight in the rain!
Ubique means 'More mounted men. Return all guns to store.'
Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps!

Ubique means the warnin' grunt the perished linesman knows,
When o'er 'is strung an' sufferin' front the shrapnel sprays 'is foes,
An' as their firin' dies away the 'usky whisper runs
From lips that 'aven't drunk all day: 'The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!'

Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any'ow,
From Colesberg Kop to Quagga's Poort - from Ninety-Nine till now -


My grandfather was a regular soldier and fought all the way through the great war and went on to complete over 20 years service. My father had a fairly tough ww2 in the navy.

The two men rarely agreed on anything but one thing they could not stand was the idea that there was any wonderful glamorous or heroic in war. Men do what they have to do for their brothers-in-arms nothing else.

"I learned our Government must be strong;
It's always right and never wrong;
Our leaders are the finest men
And we elect them again and again.

What did you learn in school today,
Dear little boy of mine?
What did you learn in school today,
Dear little boy of mine?

I learned that war is not so bad;
I learned about the great ones we have had;
We fought in Germany and in France
And someday I might get my chance.
"
Pete Seeger

The Great War was just about the worst thing that ever happened to the United Kingdom and France. I am really sorry that we are going to have 4 years of schmaltz, trite programs from Paxman, Kipling and God Save the King when many people alive today knew people who fought and suffered. The hurt loss and suffering will never wholly heal, how can it ?

Three of my granny's four brothers were killed. The other one emigrated to the USA in 1912 and ended up drafted to the US Army and sent to France ...

Have deleted my comments as I would like to stick with poetry which is what this post is about, not the ins and outs of WW1. so apologies to the OP for deviation!

T'would ring the bells of heaven their loudest peal for years,
If the Parson lost his senses and the people came to theirs,
And he and they together knelt down in angry prayers,
For tamed and shabby tigers, for dancing dogs and bears,
for wretched blind pit ponies, and for little hunted hares.

Ralph Hodgson - 1917

My favourite poem by my favourite War Poet

The General - Siegfried Sassoon

'Good-morning; good-morning!' the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
'He's a cheery old card,' grunted Harry and Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
* * * * *
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

My favourite poem by my favourite poet

THE BOY WHO DANCED WITH A TANK
Adrian Mitchell

It was the same old story
Story of boy meets State
Yes the same old story
Story of boy meets State
The body is created by loving
But a tank’s made of fear and hate

Armoured cars and heads in helmets
Rank on rank on rank on rank
The hearts of the soldiers were trembling
But the eyes of the soldiers were blank
And then they saw him swaying
The boy who danced with a tank

The tank moved left
The boy stepped right
Paused like he was having fun
The tank moved right
The boy stepped left
Smiled at his partner down the barrel of a gun

You remember how we watched him
Dancing like a strong young tree
And we knew that for that moment
He was freer than we’ll ever be
A boy danced with a tank in China
Like the flower of liberty

Here's an extension to your poem McB.

One bright day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight.
Back to back they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise
and ran to save the two dead boys.
If you don't believe this lie is true,
ask the blind man, he saw it, too.