post your favorite war poem

[Sloppy Joe2]

i am taking a class right now called literature at war and peace and it has a lot to do with the subject and i want to see if any of you have any good war poems SO PLEASE POST AWAY!!! :D

[digrar]

William Pettigrew: The ANZAC poem

Now, this is the creed of the ANZAC men,
The men with the hearts of gold,
What we won from the foe, by the steel and the gun,
By the steel and the gun we hold.

From the heights afar, and the sky above,
There may come the hail of death,
But we yield no yard of the ground we won,
Till the last man yields his breath.

We are few --- who should have been many here,
And our ranks are thinning fast,
But, by the Christ who died, for each boy who falls,
We will take toll to the last.

We are fighting now for the folks at home,
For the land from which we came,
And we are hanging on, and fighting hard,
And we are dying hard and game.

There are long quiet nights for gallant mates,
Who have fought, and fighting fell,
But for every one who has dropped his gun,
There's a fresh Hun face in Hell.

Aye, this is the creed of the ANZAC men,
The men with the hearts of gold,
What we won from the foe, by the steel and the gun,
By the steel and the gun we hold.

Pte. William Pettigrew [21.5.1887---21.9.1917]

[digrar]

The Infanteer
He is born to the earth; on the day he enlists
He is sentenced to life on the soil,
To march on it, crawl on it, dig in it, sprawl on it,
Sleep on it after his toil.
Be it sand, rock or ice, gravel, mud or red loam
He will fight on it bravely, will die,
And the crude little cross telling men of his loss
Will cry mutely to some foreign sky.
He's the tired-looking man in the untidy garb,
weatherbeaten, footsore with fatigue,
But his spirit is strong as marches along
With his burdens for league upon league.
He attacks in the face of a murderous fire,
crawling forward, attacking through mud.
When he breaks through the lines, over wire and mines
On the point of his bayonet is blood.
Should you meet him, untidy, begrimed and fatigued,
Don't indulge in unwarranted mirth,
For the brave infanteer deserves more than your sneer,
He is truly the salt of the earth.

Written during World War II, and taken from the Australian War Memorial publication 'Jungle Warfare' in 1944 - one of a series of hard-bound books published and distributed primarily by soldiers to their families back home. This poem penned by a digger known only by his nom de plume 'A Gunner' and his Army Number NX70702. It pretty much says it all.

[digrar]

Men may argue forever on what wins their wars,
And welter in cons and pros,
And seek for their answers at history’s doors,
But the man with the rifle knows.

He must stand on the ground on his own two feet,
And he’s never in doubt when it’s won,
If it’s won he’s there; if not it’s defeat,
That’s his test when the fighting is done.

When he carries the fight, it’s not with a roar,
Of armoured wings spitting death,
It’s creep and crawl on the earthen floor,
Butt down and holding his breath.

Saving his strength for the last low rush,
Grenade throw and bayonet thrust,
And the whispered prayer before he goes in,
Of a man who does what he must.

And when he’s attacked he can’t zoom away,
When the shells fill the world with their sound,
He stays where he is, loosens his spade,
And digs his defence in the ground.

The ground isn’t ours till he’s there in the flesh,
Not a gadget or bomb but a man,
He’s the answer to theories which start afresh,
With each peace since war began.

So let the wild circle of argument rage,
On what wins a war comes and goes,
Many new theories may hold the stage,
But the man with the rifle knows.



Author unknown.

[Sloppy Joe2]

thank you digrar great set of poems :D woot woot pleasure to read

[GeraldDuval]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

-Lt. John McCrae
Canadian Army
Dec 8 1915

[GeraldDuval]

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love:
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death

-William Butler Yeats
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death

[Aussie E]

In prison cell I sadly sit,
A dammed crestfallen chappie,
And own to you I feel a bit--
A little bit -- unhappy.

It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction ;
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
While waiting crucifixion.

No matter what end they decide
Quick-lime? or boiling oil? sir
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir !

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen.

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot ‘em,
And, if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, don't shoot ‘em.

And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: Ask the Boer to dinner.

Let's toss a bumper down our throat
Before we pass to heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."

Harry Harbod "Breaker" Morant

[EvanL]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

-Lt. John McCrae
Canadian Army
Dec 8 1915
best poem ever.
Even when i was a young lad, it used to make me cry.

[Lifeinasmallbox]

Together, as Brothers:
We've laughed and cried.
Together, as Brothers:
We fought side by side.
These two different worlds
From which we came,
But in our hearts
We were one and the same.
This place this creed
That we live by,
I never would have dreamed
That you would ever die.
To those who remember
You were a man among men.
To me you were more
You were my best friend.

Someday, somewhere
We will meet again,
Because we will always be
BROTHERS TO THE END!

By Dale Sizmore

on the the Black Hawk Down tragedy

[Sloppy Joe2]

Together, as Brothers:
We've laughed and cried.
Together, as Brothers:
We fought side by side.
These two different worlds
From which we came,
But in our hearts
We were one and the same.
This place this creed
That we live by,
I never would have dreamed
That you would ever die.
To those who remember
You were a man among men.
To me you were more
You were my best friend.

Someday, somewhere
We will meet again,
Because we will always be
BROTHERS TO THE END!

By Dale Sizmore

on the the Black Hawk Down tragedy
love it thanks a lot keep em coming guys :D woot woot

[Lifeinasmallbox]

damn straight slut

[Magua]

We giving all gained all.
Neither lament us nor praise.
Only in all things recall,
It is fear, not death that slays.

From little towns in a far land we came,
To save our honour and a world aflame.
By little towns in a far land we sleep;
And trust that world we won for you to keep.

Tommy

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy how's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country," when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

[Opening Batsman]

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her 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 their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at 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.

Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

[Opening Batsman]

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

[usm2b]

Not a war poem, but a song about war... so its kinda the same thing

Smile Empty Soul - This is War

i'm just a normal man
i wouldn't hurt nothing at all
but here we are

our leaders have a plan
i'd only kill if it's for them
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your ****ing head off for my country

i go to church and tithe
i go to work in a suit and tie
but this is war
i'm really not sure why
but the tv says that you are wrong
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your ****ing head off for my country

my feet hurt from the sand
but still i march on gun in hand
cause this is war
this isn't what i planned
i wanted to be so much more
but this is war

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your ****ing head off for my country

[Buckeye67]

Not necessarily a "war" poem, but it was written during WW2. This has always been one of my father's favorite poems, so its special to me as well.

"High Flight"

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Pilot Officer RCAF

------------------------------------------

High Flight was composed by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr., an American serving with the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was born in Shanghai, China in 1922, the son of missionary parents, Reverend and Mrs. John Gillespie Magee; his father was an American and his mother was originally a British citizen.

He came to the U.S. in 1939 and earned a scholarship to Yale, but in September 1940 he enlisted in the RCAF and was graduated as a pilot. He was sent to England for combat duty in July 1941.

In August or September 1941, Pilot Officer Magee composed High Flight and sent a copy to his parents. Several months later, on December 11, 1941 his Spitfire collided with another plane over England and Magee, only 19 years of age, crashed to his death.

[Options465]

"I came, I saw, .....hey is this thing on?...what? what the **** do you mean it needs new batteries?"

[drGreen]

victory

You smell that?
Do you smell that?
Napalm, son.
Nothing else in the world smells like that.
I love the smell of napalm in the morning.
You know, one time we had a hill bombed, for twelve hours.
When it was all over I walked up.
We didn’t find one of ’em, not one stinkin’ dink body.
The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill.
Smelled like – victory.

[futurepilot2004]

Charge of the Light Brigade


1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

[S'13]

The Silver Salver

"A State is not handed to a people on a silver salver"
Chaim Weizmann, first President of Israel

The Earth grows still.
The lurid sky slowly pales
Over smoking borders.
Heartsick, but still living, a people stand by
To greet the uniqueness
of the miracle.

Readied, they wait beneath the moon,
Wrapped in awesome joy, before the light.
-- Then, soon,
A girl and boy step forward,
And slowly walk before the waiting nation;

In work garb and heavy-shod
They climb
In stillness.
Wearing yet the dress of battle, the grime
Of aching day and fire-filled night

Unwashed, weary unto death, not knowing rest,
But wearing youth like dewdrops in their hair,
-- Silently the two approach
And stand.
Are they of the quick or of the dead?

Through wondering tears, the people stare.
"Who are you, the silent two?"
And they reply: "We are the silver salver
Upon which the Jewish State was served to you."

And spekaing, fall in shadow at the nation's feet.
Let the rest in Israel's chronicles be told.


You See, O Earth

You see, O earth,
how very wasteful we have been:
In your secret laps of blessing
we hid seed - not the clean
Glass-clear pearls of spelt,
but seeds of heavy wheat,
Grains of yellowish barley,
oats on frightened feet.

You see, O earth,
how very wasteful we have been:
Flowers of flowers we hid in you,
fresh with glorious sheen;
They were kissed by the earliest kiss
of the sun just coming up,
Burying beauty with graceful stem,
with the crown of the willing cup;
Before they could know noon
in the midst of innocent sorrow,
Before dreaming of light in growth
or drinking dew upon the morrow.

The best of our sons we brought you,
youth of purest dreams,
Clear in heart and deed,
untouched by earth's dark streams,
The cloth of their years yet woof,
a cloth of hopes to be,
We have none better than these.
Earth, did you see?

And you shall cover them all.
Let the plant rise in its season!
A hundred measures of might and glory,
for people, homeland vision!
They atone for our lives in glory,
their sacrifice unseen...
You see, O earth,
how very wasteful we have been.

[disabled1]

we saw we came we kicked ass

[Kriz]

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Amen ;)

[Lifeinasmallbox]

It is the Soldier,
not the reporter who has given us freedom of press

It is the Soldier,
not the poet who has given us freedom of speech

It is the Soldier,
not the campus organizer who gives us freedom to demonstrate

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
who serves beneath the flag,
and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who allows the protester to burn the flag.

Father Dennis Edward O'Brien

[Lifeinasmallbox]

Not a war poem, but a song about war... so its kinda the same thing

Smile Empty Soul - This is War

i'm just a normal man
i wouldn't hurt nothing at all
but here we are

our leaders have a plan
i'd only kill if it's for them
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

i go to church and tithe
i go to work in a suit and tie
but this is war
i'm really not sure why
but the tv says that you are wrong
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

my feet hurt from the sand
but still i march on gun in hand
cause this is war
this isn't what i planned
i wanted to be so much more
but this is war

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country


that is one of the best songs ive ever heard. real motivating.

[the_janitor]

Not a war poem, but a song about war... so its kinda the same thing

Smile Empty Soul - This is War

i'm just a normal man
i wouldn't hurt nothing at all
but here we are

our leaders have a plan
i'd only kill if it's for them
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

i go to church and tithe
i go to work in a suit and tie
but this is war
i'm really not sure why
but the tv says that you are wrong
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

my feet hurt from the sand
but still i march on gun in hand
cause this is war
this isn't what i planned
i wanted to be so much more
but this is war

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country


that is one of the best songs ive ever heard. real motivating.

This has nothing to do with poetry, sounds like it was written by a 4 year old redneck ... ;)

[J-10]

The Next War
[Stallworthy]

War's a joke for me and you,
Wile we know such dreams are true.
Siegfried Sassoon

Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death,-
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed, -knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.

[Lifeinasmallbox]

Not a war poem, but a song about war... so its kinda the same thing

Smile Empty Soul - This is War

i'm just a normal man
i wouldn't hurt nothing at all
but here we are

our leaders have a plan
i'd only kill if it's for them
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

i go to church and tithe
i go to work in a suit and tie
but this is war
i'm really not sure why
but the tv says that you are wrong
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

my feet hurt from the sand
but still i march on gun in hand
cause this is war
this isn't what i planned
i wanted to be so much more
but this is war

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country


that is one of the best songs ive ever heard. real motivating.

This has nothing to do with poetry, sounds like it was written by a 4 year old redneck ... ;)



thanx for the OPINION... i love the song and the lyrics and im sure the dude that posted it does too

[tyovan]

ANZAC Day

I saw a kid marchin’ with medals on his chest.
He marched alongside Diggers marching six abreast.
He knew that it was ANZAC Day - he walked along with pride.
He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.

And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.
A Digger said “Whose medals, son?” to which the kid replied:
“They belong to daddy, but he did not come back.
He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track”.

The kid looked rather sad then and a tear came to his eye.
The Digger said “Don’t cry my son and I will tell you why.
Your daddy marched with us today - all the blooming way.
We Diggers know that he was there - it’s like that on ANZAC Day”.

The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand,
But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.
“For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay
For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live.
The price was that some soldier his precious life must give.

For you to go to school my lad and worship God at will,
Someone had to pay the price so the Diggers paid the bill.
Your daddy died for us my son - for all things good and true.
I wonder if you understand the things I’ve said to you”.

The kid looked up at the Digger - just for a little while
And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:
“I know my dad marched here today - this is ANZAC Day.
I know he did. I know he did, all the bloomin’ way”.

[Yupa]

Fiddler's Green-

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

The author of Fiddlers' Green is unknown. It was believed to have originated in the 1800's and was a song sung by the soldiers of the 6th and 7th Cavalry.

[usm2b]

Not a war poem, but a song about war... so its kinda the same thing

Smile Empty Soul - This is War

i'm just a normal man
i wouldn't hurt nothing at all
but here we are

our leaders have a plan
i'd only kill if it's for them
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

i go to church and tithe
i go to work in a suit and tie
but this is war
i'm really not sure why
but the tv says that you are wrong
now here we are

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country

my feet hurt from the sand
but still i march on gun in hand
cause this is war
this isn't what i planned
i wanted to be so much more
but this is war

i drove in a car and flew in a plane
to come to your house and kick your door in
now it's down to this, it's just you and me
i'll blow your f*** head off for my country


that is one of the best songs ive ever heard. real motivating.

This has nothing to do with poetry, sounds like it was written by a 4 year old redneck ... ;)



thanx for the OPINION... i love the song and the lyrics and im sure the dude that posted it does too

Yeah you turd burgler p-) !!!! This song is awesome! woot

[GrimReaper]

I Want to Die in My Own Bed
Yehuda Amichai

All night the army came up from Gilgal
To get to the killing field, and that's all.
In the ground, warf and woof, lay the dead.
I want to die in My own bed.
Like slits in a tank, their eyes were uncanny,
I'm always the few and they are the many.
I must answer. They can interrogate My head.
But I want to die in My own bed.

The sun stood still in Gibeon. Forever so, it's willing
to illuminate those waging battle and killing.
I may not see My wife when her blood is shed,
But I want to die in My own bed.

Samson, his strength in his long black hair,
My hair they sheared when they made me a hero
Perforce, and taught me to charge ahead.
I want to die in My own bed.

I saw you could live and furnish with grace
Even a lion's den, if you've no other place.
I don't even mind to die alone, to be dead,
But I want to die in My own bed.


Battlefield rain
Yehuda Amichai

It rains on the faces,
On my live friends' faces.
Those who cover their heads with a blanket.
And it rains on my dead friends' faces,
Those who are covered by nothing

[Apogee]

Not really a poem, but badass none the less.

"Out of every one-hundred men,
Ten shouldn't even be there,
Eighty are just targets,
Nine are the real fighters,
And we are lucky to have them,
For they make the battle,
Ah, but the one,
One is a warrior,
And he will bring the others back."

~Hericetus circa 500 bc

[RoyalAir]

I believed,
But found the time for doubting.
He made no sound,
I heard the devil shouting.

I wanted peace,
I did not want the glory.
I walked in hell,
And now I tell my story.

I sing sad song,
I did not write the music.
I find sad words
Waiting - just inside my mind.

I played my part,
But seldom did I choose it.
I held a gun,
I did not want to use it.

Call it fate or destiny -
By either name, it troubles me.

J. Miles

[Wilco]

A Marine

We sleep so warm, in our bed we lie
While a Marine is out there, ready to die
To die for his country, to keep it alive
A Marine is there, to take the dive
Christmas comes, here we are
While a Marine sits in his foxhole way a far
We open presents, in the Christmas tree light
While a Marine on the front, pushes on the fight
Here we sit, eating a Christmas feast
While a Marine dies fighting the beast
Here we are, not having to hide
All because of that Marine, who had fallen in pride
I thank you Marine, Semper Fi


Written by yours truly.

[Tim Nice But Dim]

No heroes

There were no heroes here
Amongst the men who tramped through
Rutted, quaking moor,
Or crawled, cat-silent,
Over skittering scree
To prove the way.

No heroes fought the blazing fires
Which sucked the very blood from
Ship and man alike.
Or braved knife cold
Without a thought
To save a life.

No heroes they, but ones who loved
Sweet life and children's laugh,
And dreamt of home
When war allowed.
They were but men.

by

David Morgan

The Man He Killed


"Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!

"But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him and he at me,
And killed him in his place.

"I shot him dead because -
Because he was my foe,
Just so - my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

"He thought he'd 'list perhaps,
Off-hand like - just as I -
Was out of work - had sold his traps -
No other reason why.

"Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown."

By

Thomas Hardy

We Shall Remember Them

No visit to a gracious Queen,
no presentation honouring the dead.

The day his medal came
her fingers fumbled with the padded envelope;
ribbon and steel dropped from her hand,
another piece rolled out of sight.

When they came home they found her there,
tears falling on the polished floor,
trying to fit the fragments of her son,
to make sense of the scattered jigsaw
of his life.

Home-assembly decoration kits
by order of a grateful Government,
broken like the bodies
they were made to celebrate.

But then he was, at seventeen, hardly a soldier.
Just a name and number in the power game.
Mail-order hero of a battle scene.

By

Sheila Parry

From http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wptitle.htm

[James]

Death of the Ball Turret Gunner,

by Randall Jarrell

"From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose."

[James]

Suicide in the Trenches

by Siegfried Sassoon

"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. "

I added the bold print...

[Catch22]

@ James: great choice, my compliments.

@futurepilot : Thats Tennyson in all his glory - did you know Kipling's reply to that? http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/357.html


My fav's are not in english - automatic translation would massacre them, and literary one isn't present, and i doubt my translational skills :|

[Double Tap]

I am the hand of God; I am the dealer of fate.
From a distance, in the trees and shadows I wait.
With a round in the chamber and the bolt locked tight,
I look them in the eyes through my telescopic sight.
I touch the trigger and I say goodbye,
The man in my sights is about to die.
He crumples like paper as the round hits his head,
I feel no pain, no regrets to be said.