By Charlton “Chuck” Stanley
I first became interested in war poems when I discovered the work of Wilfred Owen. He was killed exactly one week before the Armistice was signed in November 1918. That first poem of his I read was Anthem for a Doomed Youth.
Some of the best poetry to come out of war was from World War I, although great poetry has come from almost all wars. Poets who were there do not romanticize it. Like all poets, Wilfred Owen, Seigfried Sassoon, and Rupert Brooke spoke the truth. The unvarnished hard truth, because they had been there and seen war. It is no accident that almost all “war poems” are anti-war.
Many literature and military experts alike regard Wilfred Owen as the best of the WW-I poets, although this is an arguable distinction.
More over the flip.
Anthem for a Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
One of the greatest single poems to come out of WW-I was penned by Lt. Col. John McRae, MD. He wrote In Flanders Fields. The video presentation below conveys far more than anything I can write.
What war poem or song speaks to you?
Nicole Plyler Fisk
Gene Howington
FFS Guest Blogger
Joy of Fishes
Chuck Stanley
shortfinals
Terry Welshans
ann li-summers
wordcloud9
Flowers For Socrates 
Chuck, this epitaph speaks to me:
When you go home, tell them of us and say
For their tomorrow, we gave our today.
~ John Maxwell Edmonds
All of the WWI poets were superb. My favorite WWII poem is “High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr. was only 19 when he was killed in an accident while flying a Spitfire. For you, Julie. The narration is by the elderly Spitfire pilot shown at the beginning of the video. The old man flew west himself on 13 August 2012.
Chuck,
Here’s one of my favorite videos from The Favorite Poem Project–Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen:
Elaine,
Thanks. I started to post the text of Owen’s “other best poem,” but hoped someone else would. That is a good one. One that comes from the Vietnam war was written by Col. Dick Jonas, a fighter pilot and singer/songwriter. His song, Will There Be a Tomorrow is evocative of the poignant poems and songs of WW-I
Chuck,
Here’s another poem from the Favorite Poem Project. It’s about visiting the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The poem is “Facing It” by Yusef Komunyakaa.
Thank you, Dr. Stanley. That was heartbreakingly lovely. When Neil Armstrong died, someone quoted that poem in his memory. He certainly “slipped the surly bonds of earth” in his career.
Dead Metaphors
We serve as a symbol to shield those who screw us
The clueless, crass cretins who crap on our creed
We perform the foul deeds they can only do through us
Then lay ourselves down in the dark while we bleed
Through cheap Sunday slogans they sought to imbue us
With lust for limp legacy laughably lean
Yet the Pyrrhic parade only served to undo us
We die now for duty, not “honor” obscene
We carried out plans that the lunatics drew us
Their oil-spotted, fly paper, domino dream
Then we fought for the leftover bones that they threw us
While carpetbag contractors cleaned up the cream
We stood at attention so they could review us
Like bugs on display in a cage made of glass
We hurried, then waited, so they could subdue us
Yet somewhere inside something said: “kiss my ass.”
We did the George Custer scene Rumsfeld gave to us
We took ourselves targets to arrows and bows
While the brass punched their tickets, the Indians slew us
A “strategy” ranking with History’s lows
When veterans balked they contrived to pooh-pooh us
With sneers at our “syndrome” of Vietnam sick
When that didn’t work they set out to voodoo us
With sewer boat slanderers paid to be slick
The wad-shooting gambler comes once more to woo us
His PR team planning precise photo ops
For to sell his used war he’ll have need to construe us
As witless weak wallpaper campaign-ad props
The nuts and the dolts in their suits really blew us
They made our life’s meaning a dead metaphor
Still, no matter how Furies and Fate may pursue us
The Fig Leaf Contingent has been here before
The years pass in darkness and graveyards accrue us
As early returns on investments gone wrong
So the next time “supporters” of troops ballyhoo us
Remember to vomit in tune to this song.
Michael Murry, “The Misfortune Teller,” Copyright © 2005
Soldier’s Soldier
Scapegoat of the king’s ambition
Hostage to the prince’s crime
Sent upon a madman’s errand
Soldier of another time
Sworn to do as he is bidden
Not to think of why he came
From himself his purpose hidden
Soldier by another name
Searching for a mystic evil
Ever just a war away
Always beaten, not defeated
Back to fight another day
Battles always won, but cheated
Of the promised victory
Never lost but just depleted
Army of our history
Kill the chicken; scare the monkey
Centipede is dead, not stiff
Off to far Cathay he marches
Soldier diving off a cliff
War not done but just abated
Peace the only thing to fear
Power’s hunger never sated
Soldier’s orders never clear
Dragon’s teeth by Cadmus planted
Sprung from battle’s plain full grown
Men who kill them all if doubtful
Heathen gods will know their own
Burn the village, clear the jungle
Save them from themselves at least
Make excuses for the bungle
Soldier then becomes the beast
Wounds still fresh and redly bleeding
Bound up with a filthy rag
Something shapeless once a husband
Stuffed into a plastic bag
Squatting in the dusty swelter
Widowed woman once a wife
Never more to know the shelter
Of a tranquil married life
Head thrown back in boundless grieving
Mouth agape with soundless woes
Tears and snot now glisten, mingling
Coursing down from eyes and nose
Anguished face a tangled curtain
Clotted, matted, raven hair
Almond eyes with sight uncertain
Weeping pools of deep despair
Do not knock this war we’re having
It’s the only one we’ve got
Better dead than red we tell them
Mouthing slogans; talking rot
Fight them over there they tell us
Rather that than fight them here
Just invent some casus bellus
Danger’s best that’s never near
Ozymandias’ sneering statue
Crumbled in the desert bare:
Look upon my works, you mighty
See their ruin and take care
Told to teach and be creative
Soldier ignorant and young
Learned instead and then went native
Speaking now an ancient tongue
Only they will now receive him
Who see not his bloodstained hand
None will hear for he can’t speak it
Stranger to his own lost land
Bringing with him what he carried
Losing only what he bought
To the cause no longer married
Soldier doing what he ought
Shipped away like so much baggage
Not to choose the things he’s done
Often bad and sometimes better
Soldier not the only one
Now he comes home like the others
Breathless lips and eyes shut fast
Lain to sleep beside his brothers
Soldier’s soldier to the last
Michael Murry, “The Misfortune Teller,” Copyright 2005
Peace With Horror
A leper knight rode into view
Astride his mangy steed
A harbinger of violence
A plague without a need
An apparition of discord
Upon which fear would feed
His unannounced arrival meant
He’d lost his leper’s bell
And yet his ugly innocence
Could not conceal the smell
His good intentions only paved
Another road to Hell
With mace and lance and sword deployed
He vowed in peace to live
Through rotting lips he promised not
To take, but only give
He swore to only kill the ones
Whom he said shouldn’t live
He did not speak the language and
He did not know the land
So why the healthy shrank from him
He could not understand
Why did they want the water when
He’d offered them the sand?
Committing to commitments he
Committed crimes galore
As steadfast in his loyalties
As any purchased whore
A mercenary madman like
His slogan: “Peace through War”
His slaying for salvation masked
An inner, grasping greed
A lust for living good and well
While looking past his deed
A dead man walking wakefully;
A graveyard gone to seed
He planned to leave in “phases,” so
He said to those back home
Who’d heard some nasty rumors rife
From Babylon to Rome
Of murders in their name meant to
Exalt their sacred tome
But still he needed to “protect”
Some pilgrims on the road
Who for “protection” glumly paid
A portion of their load:
For this decaying derelict,
An object episode
When asked to give a summary
Of what he had achieved
He shifted to the future tense
The gains that he perceived
And spoke in the subjunctive mood
To those he had aggrieved
“The future life to come portends
More suffering than now.
Through me alone can you avoid
What I will disavow:
The promises I never made
While making, anyhow.”
“I unsay things that I have said
And say I never did;
Then say them once again to pound
The meaning deeply hid,
Down where the lizard lives between
The ego and the id.”
“I’ve given you catastrophe
And called it a success;
If you want other outcomes then
Step forward and confess
That you believed a pack of lies
With no strain, sweat, or stress.”
“You know the meaning of my words
Lasts only just as long
As sound takes to decay in air
So that you take them wrong
If you assign significance
To my sly siren song.”
“A ‘propaganda catapult’
I’ve called myself, in fact;
A damning human document
Which I myself redact
At every opportunity
With no concern for tact.”
“If you think what I’ve done before
Has caused me to repent
Or dream that I, in any way,
Might let up or relent
Then I’ve got wars for you to buy,
Or maybe just to rent.”
“I’ve little time to live on earth,
So why should I reflect
Upon the dead and dying souls
Whose lives I’ve robbed and wrecked?
I care not if they hate, just that
They know to genuflect.”
Thus did the ruin of a world
Continue in its curse;
The great man on his horse relieved
The faithful of their purse
And gave them bad to save them from
What they feared even worse
So onward to Jerusalem
He staggered as he slew
In train with sack and booty that
He only thought his due
For spreading freedom’s germs among
The last surviving few
Michael Murry, “The Misfortune Teller,” Copyright 2008
This is about a mother’s tears on finding her youngest son dying after the battle at Halidon Hill on July 19, 1333. The plea to not forget him rings down across seven centuries, along with a mother’s love,