If poetry serves any purpose it is to reveal the feelings, thoughts and understanding of men.
War is terrible.
In the First World War it became industrial. Life and death was not so much a game of skill as a lottery. It was murder plain.
Nations sent their young men to be blown to smithereens or return mentally deranged forever. All who practice in the art of brutality are victims.
Attack
At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow’ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to, meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!
Poems about war… Very visual. My dad was a poet. I was so thankful, though, that his poetry was always tethered to beautiful things he saw overseas, not the war itself. I love her, btw…
My Dad was in Italy during the war. He did not speak about it at all.
My Husband was in Burma and he never spoke about it until he was attacked by two thugs here and left for dead, David had to see a Specialist who was trying to get David to say what had happened how he felt. He suddenly came out with Burma, first time I had heard him mention the War. He spoke of the Japs (can I say that these days) in the bush and how he was scared, his life or theirs. But, he told the specialist he was more scared of these two thugs that had attacked him, his own Country. All Wars are terrible, its not just the horrific deaths or the injuries its the scars left on the minds. Men don’t talk of their wars or the violence, until they are broken.
My Dad and Grandad were the same. They didn’t talk about it. They came back traumatised.
There has to be better ways.