17-10-2018, 09:04 AM
1
Poignant poem of the Great War
Lest we forget, the Great War had many types of casualties...Shared from another site
[IMG]
I SPOKE TO YOU IN WHISPERS
By
Neil Andrew
I spoke to you in whispers
As shells made the ground beneath us quake
We both trembled in that crater
A toxic muddy bloody lake
I spoke to you and pulled your ears
To try and quell your fearful eye
As bullets whizzed through the raindrops
And we watched the men around us die
I spoke to you in stable tones
A quiet tranquil voice
At least I volunteered to fight
You didn't get to make the choice
I spoke to you of old times
Perhaps you went before the plough
And pulled the haycart from the meadow
Far from where we're dying now
I spoke to you of grooming
Of when the ploughman made you shine
Not the shrapnel wounds and bleeding flanks
Mane filled with mud and wire and grime
I spoke to you of courage
As gas filled the Flanders air
Watched you struggle in the mud
Harness acting like a snare
I spoke to you of peaceful fields
Grazing beneath a setting sun
Time to rest your torn and tired body
Your working day is done
I spoke to you of promises
If from this maelstrom I survive
By pen and prose and poetry
I'll keep your sacrifice alive
I spoke to you of legacy
For when this hellish time is through
All those who hauled or charged or carried
Will be regarded heroes too
I spoke to you in dulcet tones
Your eye told me you understood
As I squeezed my trigger to bring you peace
The the only way I could
And I spoke to you in whispers......
very sad...
18-10-2018, 07:31 AM
7
Re: Poignant poem of the Great War
On this same theme the great Australian poet Banjo Paterson wrote The Last Parade. He was a war correspondent during WWI (he was in his 50s).When the Australian troops went home only one horse returned to Australia (out of 136000) due to the strict (even then) quarantine regulations. Remember that as you read this poem.
The Last Parade
With never a sound of trumpet,
With never a flag displayed,
The last of the old campaigners
Lined up for the last parade.
Weary they were and battered,
Shoeless, and knocked about;
From under their ragged forelocks
Their hungry eyes looked out.
And they watched as the old commander
Read out, to the cheering men,
The Nation's thanks and the orders
To carry them home again.
And the last of the old campaigners,
Sinewy, lean, and spare --
He spoke for his hungry comrades:
`Have we not done our share?
`Starving and tired and thirsty
We limped on the blazing plain;
And after a long night's picket
You saddled us up again.
`We froze on the wind-swept kopjes
When the frost lay snowy-white.
Never a halt in the daytime,
Never a rest at night!
`We knew when the rifles rattled
From the hillside bare and brown,
And over our weary shoulders
We felt warm blood run down,
`As we turned for the stretching gallop,
Crushed to the earth with weight;
But we carried our riders through it --
Carried them p'raps too late.
`Steel! We were steel to stand it --
We that have lasted through,
We that are old campaigners
Pitiful, poor, and few.
`Over the sea you brought us,
Over the leagues of foam:
Now we have served you fairly
Will you not take us home?
`Home to the Hunter River,
To the flats where the lucerne grows;
Home where the Murrumbidgee
Runs white with the melted snows.
`This is a small thing surely!
Will not you give command
That the last of the old campaigners
Go back to their native land?'
They looked at the grim commander,
But never a sign he made.
`Dismiss!' and the old campaigners
Moved off from their last parade.
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