[Sonic67]

I think we need one. What say you? Post a poem:

[DPinBucks]

A good idea, but:

Moderator: what is the situation re copyright on this forum? Wouldn't want to upset anyone.

Anyway, assuming that it's other people's poems you want, and not mine, herewith one of my favourites:

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Marvell, To his Coy Mistress

[Sonic67]

This was read out at a vigil service recently:

I was that which others did not want to be.
I went where others failed to go,
And did what others failed to do,
I asked nothing from those who gave nothing
And reluctantly accepted the thought
Of eternal loneliness, should I fail.
I have seen the face of terror,
felt the stinging cold of fear,
and enjoyed the sweet taste of a moments love.
I have cried, pained and hoped . . . but most of all,
I have lived times others would say were best forgotten.
At least someday I will be able to say
that I was proud of what I was.

[IronGiant]

Originally Posted by DPinBucks

A good idea, but:

Moderator: what is the situation re copyright on this forum? Wouldn't want to upset anyone.

That's quite a good question...

Let me ponder it a while. In the meantime keep posting

Dave

[Sonic67]

This made me smile:

I first met her in Cairo,
I fancied her on sight,
But she gave me a glassy stare,
When my lips met hers that night.
To me she was so beautiful,
Tall with a golden tan,
And her effervescent sparkle,
Would please 'most any man.
She was so cool and tempting,
Her dress was paper thin,
And as I madly tore it off,
I knew that I would win.
I held her tightly in that bar,
I was hot, my throat was dry,
I took her without a struggle,
There was no protesting cry.
I took her back to share with friends,
She was passed from man to man,
She was drained of all she had to give,
As only soldiers can.
Now, as I lay upon my bed,
I wish that she was here,
But I've only the empty bottle,
That was filled with Stella beer.

[Sonic67]

The flash, the bang, the brick dust, the smell of acrid smoke.
The soldier was just sitting there, had that all been a joke?
The instant, searing pain had gone, and now he looked around.
The buildings & the streets had gone, no pavements on the ground.
He looked around in panic, his comrades were not there.
The whole patrol had been as one when he’d walked into the square.
He stood & stretched, then reached down for his rifle & his pack,
The valley stretched in front of him, there was no turning back.
The grass was green, the cloudless sky was clear, but no sun shone,
No living thing, no bird, no bee, he was the only one.
The direction of the winding path he could not guess, or tell.
He did not know that journey's end was the other side of hell.


A figure walked towards him, & now his spirits rose,
The man must be a soldier, he was wearing soldiers clothes.
A tunic red, a cross belt white, a musket held at ease.
He met up with our traveler beside a grove of trees.
"Hullo," said our man with a smile, "I think I’ve lost my way.
I must get back to Belfast town before the close of day."
"That's a problem," said the man, "I'm not sure what you'll do,
This area is for all the lads that fell at Waterloo."
He pointed far across the vale, towards a distant mound.
"I have heard tell that others occupy that forward ground.
Just follow on until you hear the tolling of a bell,
And you will surely find the route to the other side of hell."


With smile & wave our soldier left his new & helpful friend,
And presently the track swung left, around a sunken bend.
A group of men stood in a trench, the grass had turned to mud.
They were dirty & disheveled, & one's head was caked with blood.
"Stay down, that man!" Their leader cried, "To stand invites a bomb!
You don’t go strolling round like that when fighting on the Somme."
"I'm sorry, sir," our soldier said, "but I think I'm lost,
I must rejoin my unit soon, I cant regard the cost."
The Captain frowned, then crawled across to where the soldier lay.
He pulled a map case from his side, and pointed out the way.
"I'm sorry if I startled you, I didn't mean to yell,
But please keep low, or you wont reach the other side of hell."


Our young man crawled, until he felt that it was safe to stand.
Then marveled how the land had changed, the mud becoming sand.
A burnt out tank now greeted him, two soldiers at it's base,
A can of tea was boiling up, a smile upon each face.
"Na then, me lad, doest want a brew?" the grinning Corporal said,
"It's strong & thick, & would even put a smile upon the dead."
The soldier joined those Desert Rats in that barren, timeless place,
And drank with them the tea that put the smile upon his face.
He thanked them both, then asked again directions to his goal,
The smiling corporal's message added laughter to his soul.
"Just cross those dunes, and soon you'll get that old familiar smell,
That lets you know that you have reached the other side of hell."


The black & threatening streets, with burning cars, now filled his view,
And soon our hero saw some other soldier's that he knew.
Near seven hundred other men assembled in that place,
And others too would soon set out, the lonely path to trace.
He took his place along with mates that he would always see,
Fighting there on ghostly streets for all eternity.
All soldiers who for centuries died with weapons in their hand,
Will always have a place reserved here in Valhalla's land.
And whilst their Earth bound friends forget the sacrifice they made,
And whilst cenotaphs are vandalised, & children'' memories fade,
The fight goes on, with soldier's new, so we will always tell,
The stories of the men who've seen the other side of hell.

[mmayson]

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Some poems rhyme,
And others don't.

Don't worry about copyright, feel free to use this as required

^^^^^Great poem by the way Sonic67 ^^^^^

[Sonic67]

A few for today:

Medals

Don't envy a man his medals
All those ribbons on his chest
He did not try to get them
They're not there at his request
They were earned in stinking hell holes
Where no man would like to go
Or in cold and wintry places
Where there's only ice and snow
He did not know he earned them
Till they were awarded at parade
And they were bright when he first got them
But in time the colours fade
He was told he had to wear them
And to wear them all with pride
But when the memories come to haunt him
Those same medals make him hide
Cause those medals will not bring back
All those guys he left behind
And he would trade them all forever
For a little peace of mind
So don't envy a man his medals
You don't want to take his place
Thinking back to long gone battles
And meeting dead friends face to face

[Sonic67]

THE MEMORIAL

We tried, we tried, Oh God we tried
So we could be here too
And walk around remembering
And look for names we knew

Our lives were lost so far away
Upon a distant shore
But we are here in memory
As you read our names once more

Remember us, Remember us
Although we're truly gone
Remember us, as we once were
And not just names in stone...

[Sonic67]

Just a Common Soldier

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast
And he sat around the Legion telling stories of the past
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done
In his exploits with his buddies they were heroes every one.

Though, sometimes to his neighbours, his tales became a joke
All his Legion buddies listened for they knew whereof he spoke
But we’ll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away
And the world’s a little poorer- for a soldier died today

He’ll not be mourned by many just his children and his wife
For he lived an ordinary quiet and uneventful life
Held a job and raised a family quietly going his own way;
And the world won’t note his passing- though a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth their bodies lie in state
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great
Papers tell their life stories from the time that they were young
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
A guy who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife
Goes off to serve his country and offers up his life?

A politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives
While the ordinary soldier who offers up his all
Is paid off with a medal and perhaps a pension small.

It’s so easy to forget them for it was so long ago
That the “Old Bills” of our country went to battle, but we know
It was not politicians with their compromise and ploys
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys

Should you ever find yourself in danger with your enemies at hand
Would you want a politician with his ever-shifting stand?
Or would you prefer a soldier who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin and country and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin
But his presence should remind us we may need his like again
For when countries are in conflict then we find the soldiers part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start

If we cannot do him honour while he’s here to hear the praise
Then at least let’s give him homage at the endings of his days
Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper would say
“Our Country Is In Mourning- For A Soldier Died Today”

A. Lawrence Vaincourt WW2 RCAF Veteran Written 1985

[Sonic67]

For The Fallen by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

[Sonic67]

I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white
sails to the morning breeze and starts
for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until at length
she hangs like a speck of white cloud
just where the sea and sky come
to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says;
"There, she is gone!"

"Gone where?"
Gone from my sight. That is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull
and spar as she was when she left my side
and she is just as able to bear her
load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone
at my side says, "There, she is gone!"
There are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad
shout;
"Here she comes!"
And that is dying.”

Henry Van Dyke

[Sonic67]

Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.

by Henry Reed

[Sonic67]

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

by Siegfried Sassoon

[Sonic67]

English Pronunciation For Foreigners:

I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough?
Others may stumble but not you
On hiccough, thorough,laugh and through.
Well done! And now you wish perhaps,
To learn of these familiar traps?

Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird,
And dead: it's said like bed, not bead,
For Goodness' sake, don't call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat,
They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.

A moth is not a moth in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth, in brother,
And here is not a match for there,
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,
And then there's does and rose and lose-
Just look them up: and goose and choose,

And cork and work and card and ward
And font and front and word and sword.
And do and go and thwart and cart-
Come, come, I've hardly made a start!
A dreadful language? Man alive!
I'd mastered it when I was five!
And yet to write it, the more I sigh,
I'll not learn how 'til the day I die

[Sonic67]

On yonder hill..
there stood a coo..
it must have moved,
'cos it's no there noo.

[Ned Senior]

mate sonic those are some class words... have you got any funnies??

I bet you could!!!!

Peace

Ned

[Sonic67]

I like military poems and poems about England but I've got lots.

Elegy in a Country Churchyard

The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And birds and bees of England
About the cross can roam.

But they that fought for England,
Following a falling star,
Alas, alas for England
They have their graves afar.

And they that rule in England,
In stately conclave met,
Alas, alas for England
They have no graves as yet.

JK Chesterton

[Sonic67]

Postpals asked me to give this a bit of wider attention.

BBC NEWS | England | Southern Counties | Creating hope with 'happy post'

Please read! Inspirational poem by Alice who is 13 and fighting cancer, it was written for a fundraising race

When I'm feeling tired and weepy
and things aren't going my way
I watch others take for granted
that they'll see another day
When I feel afraid and all alone
and my mum feels this way too
I take a minute to reflect
On the things I'd like to do
I'd like to have a sailing yacht
and travel oceans far
Leave footprints sunken in the sand
No need to have a car
But for now my lines are busy
taking chemotherapy
To help me in my fight against
the cancer that's in me
I came here to this race today
for those who fight like me
Let's join together, one BIG team
'cos it's not beating me!

Post Pals - Post a Smile on a Sick Child's Face

My Montage 9/28/09 at One True Media - share slideshows, slide shows, Facebook slideshows, free video sharing, video montages.

[JayLaFunk]

Remember Piper Alpha

Come In Standby Vessel
It's Alpha Sixteen
It's A Comfort To Know
That You're There On The Scene

I Have A Desperate Feeling
This Midsummer's Night
There's A Stillness Unusual
Something's Not Right

The Day Shift Is Sleeping
The Hour Is Nine
There's A Valve That Is Missing
On A High Pressure Line

The Stillness Is Broken
What A Terrible Howl
Demented And Rabid
Like Wolves On The Prowl

The Gas Is Escaping
Now Fire Teams Wait
There's A Call For Muster
But I Fear It Is Too Late

An Inferno Is Escaping
God! I'm Standing Alone
The Steel It Is Melting
Like The Flesh From Our Bone

Look! Here Comes The Tharos
But It's Doing No Good
Now Black Smoke Engulfs Us
Like A Hanging Mans Hood

Oh! The Fire It Is Spreading
And Panic Is Rife
A Scaffolder Cries Out
Then Jumps For His Life

There's Men Going Crazy
And Screaming In Pain
The Sounds Of The Dying
It Drives Me Insane

Up On The Derrick
A Roughneck In Vain
Screams For His Mother
To Come Ease His Pain

Another Explosion
God! That Makes It Three
The Quarters That We Live In
Now Slide To The Sea

Inside Men Are Weeping
Not Really In Fear
The Thoughts That Torment Them
Are The Folks They Hold Dear

For Never To See Them
Saddens Their Heart
For Death And Oblivion
Will Keep Them Apart

And Now Occidental
Your Debt You Must Pay
For The Death And The Sorrow
You Caused That Day

God! I Hate All These Bastards
Who Don't Give A Damn
All Bosses And Thatcher
We Know You're A Sham

A Word Of Condolence
Then You Leave Us To Grieve
While You Sit In Your Penthouse
And Laugh Up Your Sleeve

So Remember The Piper
You Who Are To Blame
When You're Sent To The Devil
To Burn In His Flame

To The Lads Of The Piper
You've Not Died In Vain
We'll Remember You Always
And Inherit Your Pain.

[TheForge]

TV

My TV is ancient
its an old CRT
The pictures real fuzzy
snows all I see

Its lasted for years
but dont you just know
It exploded in flames
in the middle of a show

For my TV was ancient
its time to upgrade
I want a big screen
as soon as im paid

It cost a small fortune
with shipping and tax
Now to connect it all up
to my old betamax

The Forge

[Sonic67]

The Indispensable Man

Sometime when you're feeling important;
Sometime when your ego's in bloom;
Sometime when you take it for granted,
You're the best qualified in the room:

Sometime when you feel that your going,
Would leave an unfillable hole,
Just follow these simple instructions,
And see how they humble your soul.

Take a bucket and fill it with water,
Put your hand in it up to the wrist,
Pull it out and the hole that's remaining,
Is a measure of how much you'll be missed.

You can splash all you wish when you enter,
You may stir up the water galore,
But stop, and you'll find that in no time,
It looks quite the same as before.

The moral of this quaint example,
Is to do just the best that you can,
Be proud of yourself but remember,
There's no indispensable man.

[Sonic67]

Luck

I suppose they'll say his last thoughts were of simple things,
Of April back at home, and the late sun on his wings;
Or that he murmured someone else's name
As earth reclaimed him sheathed in flame.
Oh God! Let's have no more of empty words,
Lip service ornamenting death!
The worms don't spare the hero;
Nor can children feed upon resounding praises of his deed.
'He died who loved to live,' they'll say,
'Unselfishly so we might have today!'
Like hell! He fought because he had to fight;
He died that's all. It was his unlucky night.

Dennis McHarrie

This poem commemorates a friend of the poet who took up a defective plane and crashed, a plane the poet could well have flown himself.

[Sonic67]

Lady Astor accused those who were fighting in Italy as D Day dodgers who were enjoying the warm weather of southern Europe. This came out as an answer:

There is a song the Eighth Army used to sing,
Marching through the desert, marching with a swing
But now they're on a different game.
Although the tune is still the same
The words have all been altered,
The words we're singing still:

We're the D-Day Dodgers here in Italy,
Drinking all the vino, always on a spree.
We didn't land with Eisenhower
And so they think we're just a shower
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

We're the D-Day dodgers here in Italy
Drinking all the vino, always on a spree.
Eighth Army scroungers and their tanks,
We go to war in ties like swanks.
We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy

Dearest Lady Astor, you think you're mighty hot,
Standing on the platform, talking tommyrot.
Dear England's sweetheart and her pride
We think your mouth's too bleeding wide -
From all the D-Day Dodgers, in sunny Italy.

Here's to Lady Astor, our pin up girl out here.
She's the dear old lady, who sends us such good beer
And when we get our Astor band,
We'll be the proudest in the land,
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

We landed in Salerno, a holiday with pay,
The Jerries brought the band out to greet us on the way.
Showed us the sights and gave us tea,
We all sang songs, the beer was free
To welcome D-Day Dodgers, to sunny Italy.

Salerno and Cassino we're takin' in our stride
We didn't go to fight there, we went there for the ride
Anzio and Sanzio were just names,
We only went to look for dames,
The artful D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

'round Lake Trasimano we'd a lovely time
Bags of wine and women, they didn't cost a dime.
Base wallahs, amgot and the yanks,
All stayed in Rome, to dodge the tanks
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

We stayed a week in Florence, polished off the wine,
Then thumbed our way to Rimini right through the Gothic Line
Soon to Bologna we will go when Jerrys gone across the Po
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, the lads that D-Day dodged.

We hear the boys in France are going home on leave,
After six months service it's a shame they're not relieved
But we can carry on out here for what may be a few more years
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

Once we heard a rumour we were going home
Back to dear old Blighty never more to roam
Then someone said in France you'll fight
We answered: "No, we'll just sit tight!"
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, the lads that D-Day dodged.

When the war is over and we've done our bit
Climbing over mountains, through mud and sleet and ****,
Then we will all be sent out east
Till B.L.A. have been released
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

Forgotten by the many remembered by the few
We'd our armistice when an armistice was new
One million Germans gave up to us
We finished our war without much fuss
For we're the D-Day Dodgers, out here in Italy.

Look around the mountains in the mud and rain
You'll find scattered crosses, some which bear no name.
Heart break and toil and suffering gone
the boys beneath them slumber on,
For they're the D-Day Dodgers, who stayed in Italy.

Hamish Henderson, 1944

[pringtef]

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling, 1909

[pringtef]

I was thinking about posting Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, but posting a +600 lines article probably isn't cricket......

[Sonic67]

For today (St Georges Day)

The True Dragon

St George was out walking
He met a dragon on a hill,
It was wise and wonderful
Too glorious to kill

It slept amongst the wild thyme
Where the oxlips and violets grow
Its skin was a luminous fire
That made the English landscape glow

Its tears were England’s crystal rivers
Its breath the mist on England’s moors
Its larder was England’s orchards,
Its house was without doors

St George was in awe of it
It was a thing apart
He hid the sleeping dragon
Inside every English heart

So on this day let’s celebrate
England’s valleys full of light,
The green fire of the landscape
Lakes shivering with delight

Let’s celebrate St George’s Day,
The dragon in repose;
The brilliant lark ascending,
The yew, the oak, the rose

by Brian Patten

[Sonic67]

Vitaï Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red,
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

Henry Newbolt

[Sonic67]

Why do you still march old man?
With your medals on your chest
Why do you still grieve old man?
For those friends you laid to rest
Why do your eyes gleam old man
When you hear those bugles blow
Tell me why you cry old man
For those days so long ago.

I'll tell you why I march, young man
With these medals on my chest
I'll tell you why I grieve young man
For those friends I laid to rest
Through misty folds of gossamer silk
Come visions of distant times
When boys of very tender age
Marched forth to distant climes
So young they were... with blossom cheeks
Their eyes shone bright and clear
Scant knowledge of this sinful! World
Thought nought of hate or fear
Their laughter rang through strange bare rooms
Hardships.. They were soon to know
All they knew, was beyond their shores
Was a deadly vicious foe
They left behind their boring life
They had nothing much to give
So they laid their lives on the line
So you... young man... would live

With bayonet... Gun... And blossom cheeks
The innocence of their youth
They stood alone with fearsome pride
And perceived the awful truth
The truth they learnt… they had to die
(It’s not easy when you’re young)
The gods of war had chosen them
And stilled their youthful tongues
The guns they crashed… and the stukas dived
The shells tore their flesh asunder
I smelt their blood… watched them die
The war lords claimed their plunder
And as these warrior gods passed by
They smiled at their obscene death
Gone were their apple blossom cheeks
Scorched by napalm burning breath

We buried them in a blanket shroud
Their young flesh scorched and blackened
A communal grave newly gouged
In the bloodstained gorse and bracken
And you ask me why I march… young man
I march to remind you all
But for those apple blossomed youths
Freedom… would have been lost to all.

[Sonic67]

Rees was a Gloucestershire lad who died on the Somme in July 1916. His body was never found and his name on the Menin Gate is his only memorial except for this poem, which was written by his mother:-

Telling the Bees.

They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and died out there:
Bugle and drum for him were dumb, and the padre said no prayer;
The passing bell gave never a peal to tell that a soul was fled,
And we laid him not in the quiet spot where cluster his family dead.

But I hear a foot on the pathway, above the low hum of the hive,
That at edge of dark, like the song of the lark, tells that the world is alive.
Yet he cannot chose but tell them the news-the bees have a right to know.

Bound by the ties of a happier day, they are one with us now in our worst.
On the very morn that my boy was born they were told the tidings first.
Wise little heralds, tell now of my boy; in your golden tabard coats
Tell the bank where he slept and the stream that he leapt, where the spangled lily floats.
The tree he climbed shall toss its head, and the torrent he swam shall thrill,
And the gale that bore his shouts before shall carry his message still.

G.E. Rees.