502 War poems

I lived in the first century of world wars. Most mornings I would be more or less insane, The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories, The news would pour out of various devices Interrupted by attempts to sell products to the unseen. I would call my friends on other devices; They would be more or less mad for similar reasons. Slowly I would get to pen and paper, Make my poems for others unseen and unborn. In the day I would be reminded of those men and women, Brave, setting up signals across vast distances, Considering a nameless way of living, of almost unimagined values. As the lights darkened, as the lights of night brightened, We would try to imagine them, try to find each other, To construct peace, to make love, to reconcile Waking with sleeping, ourselves with each other, Ourselves with ourselves. We would try by any means To reach the limits of ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves, To let go the means, to wake. I lived in the first century of these wars.

The sound of the water jar empties in the open graves where the refugees live. Because it does not touch me near my pillow I can sleep and dream of  the clean lines of  summer. What I thought were faces turn out to be elaborate plates of sweets not this human sadness. One or two inches above my head until the mosquito sticks his snout into my dream.

You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented, Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented— My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry. You are aware that once I sought the Grail, Riding in armour bright, serene and strong; And it was told that through my infant wail There rose immortal semblances of song. But now I've said good-bye to Galahad, And am no more the knight of dreams and show: For lust and senseless hatred make me glad, And my killed friends are with me where I go. Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs; And there is absolution in my songs.

Hanging from the beam, Slowly swaying (such the law), Gaunt the shadow on your green, Shenandoah! The cut is on the crown (Lo, John Brown), And the stabs shall heal no more. Hidden in the cap Is the anguish none can draw; So your future veils its face, Shenandoah! But the streaming beard is shown (Weird John Brown), The meteor of the war.

The power of Armies is a visible thing, Formal and circumscribed in time and space; But who the limits of that power shall trace Which a brave People into light can bring Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase, No eye can follow, to a fatal place That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Within its awful caves.—From year to year Springs this indigenous produce far and near; No craft this subtle element can bind, Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

Fighting in mud, we turn to Thee, In these dread times of battle, Lord. To keep us safe, if so may be, From shrapnel, snipers, shell, and sword. But not on us, for we are men Of meaner clay, who fight in clay, but on the Staff, the Upper Ten, Depends the issue of the Day. The staff is working with its brains, While we are sitting in the trench; The Staff the universe ordains (subject to Thee and General French). God help the staff-especially The young ones, many of them sprung From our high aristocracy; Their task is hard, and they are young. O Lord, who mad'st all things to be, And madest some things very good, Please keep the Extra A.D.C. From horrid scenes, and sight of blood. See that his eggs are newly laid, Not tinged as some of them-with green; And let no nasty draughts invade The windows of his Limousine. When he forgets to buy the bread, When there are no more minerals, Preserve his smooth well-oiled head From wrath of caustic Generals. O Lord, who mad'st all things to be, And hatest nothing thou has made, Please keep the Extra A.D.C Out of the sun and in the shade.

My shoulders ache beneath my pack (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). I march with feet that burn and smart (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart). Men shout at me who may not speak (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek). I may not lift a hand to clear My eyes of salty drops that sear. (Then shall my fickle soul forget Thy agony of Bloody Sweat?) My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come). Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me Than all the hosts of land and sea. So let me render back again This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee— Like summer tempest came her tears— "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed, The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk Of spanless girth, that lays on every side A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came; The leaves were wet with women's tears: they heard A noise of songs they would not understand: They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall, And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves. Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they came, The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree! But we will make it faggots for the hearth, And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor, And boats and bridges for the use of men. Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: they struck; With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew There dwelt an iron nature in the grain: The glittering axe was broken in their arms, Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade. Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll'd With music in the growing breeze of Time, The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs Shall move the stony bases of the world.

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee.