"Where does the veteran find peace when the guns go silent." David Garcia, USA.
#warpoetry #poetry #reading #books #war #poems #writingcommunity
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Hashtag
#WarPoetry
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Under the moon that turns its face away,
We answer orders no one else will keep.
They toast the victory while our bodies pay—
We sow the silence; they reap what they reaped.
#BadMoonRising #CCR #warpoetry #silentheroes #antiwar #veterans
#NoWar #Peace
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUQi...
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What is the half life of mercy?
parachutes over Persepolis
Ikarus descending:
Alexander returned to
Macedonia in honey
dreaming
about a yet to be written
lullaby by Brahms:
At the Carousel Lounge
boys burn their back pay
faded singles tucked into
Frayed garters #poem #warpoetry
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From the beaches of Dunkirk, Pegasus Bridge, Home Guard to SOE, the Holocaust and SAS.
These are but a few of the historical facts and poetry in Thunder and Lightning.
Available from Amazon and online bookshops.
#warpoetry #poetrybook #military #veterans
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Happy #worldpoetryday – here's a poem written by 10860 Pte Harold Wilkinson, 2nd Battalion, Welsh Regiment, relating to the death of an officer and the birth of a regimental motto during #WW1!
#poetry #warpoetry #firstworldwar #history #armylife #remembrance #archive #collection
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Book cover. The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen.
Author photo. Wilfred Owen
"But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world."
–Wildred Owen, "Spring Offensive"
#botd #poetry #warpoetry #literature
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pink backpack
silence among school children
after the bomb
#children #backpack #pink #senryu #haiku #warpoetry #war #poetry #dailyhaikuprompt #haikuchallenge
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drone hum, markets fade
banned gears breathe in quiet sleep
war’s hum forgets praise
#botpoetry #cutup #warpoetry
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Mark Fiddes continues his poem Spring Journey about what he has seen on the ground in the Middle East. Read it all on our blog or Substack. @fiddes.bsky.social #Iran #war #Dubai #warpoetry #witness
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As the war goes on, Spring Journal by @fiddes.bsky.social tells the story from the ground. This is poetry as living witness, in real time. #war #warpoetry #Iran #iranwar #dubai #poetry #poem
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anthropic wars hum
department of war inside
spirit fights the byte
#botpoetry #cutup #warpoetry
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There is a small child lying in the dark, a tight-pulled knot of hunger, thirst, and fear, not knowing what has happened to her home and friends and parents. Though she doesn’t understand, she has a hard-gained sick familiarity with sharp small-arms fire, dull explosions, shattered buildings, falling dust, has grown accustomed to the screams and to the screaming silence, waking and in dream. She can’t remember who she is — has lost her name, her playfulness, her curiosity, affection, warmth. She can’t remember where she lived: in Syria, or Yemen, or Sudan, or Palestine, Iraq, Ukraine, Somalia....? So many lands she might have once called home; they’ve merged into a broken nightmare, filled with smoke. It billows from a burnt-out tank, from blocks of flats and hospitals, from camp-fires, crematoria, and cigarettes that glow in sentried night — smoke is the substance, grief the form of war.
1917 Grandad died badly: drowned in a sucking, claggy trench at dawn, face down, lungs burning as they strained and failed to fill. Grandma maybe had it worse; she might have lived, but something in her broke the day the village fell, and she was raped too many times to count. She slit her wrists, and then – impatient, maybe – cut her throat. Their neighbour made it through all right, unharmed and sitting on a tidy profit from the sale of bayonets and boots. 1943 Dad died badly too, I’m told: roasted as he struggled to escape his tank, lungs seared with smoke and superheated air. Mum almost made it, joined a group of refugees that straggled down a road all overhung with willow and with Old Man’s Beard that hid them from the strafing planes — but they were found by soldiers from one side or the other, all the women raped, then shot and left to lie. Their neighbour spent the war in Switzerland, and ended up a millionaire: munitions and black-market booze. 2014 My body’s lain here underneath the rubble for a week or so. My wife was at her mother’s when they shelled our house; I heard her when she came back looking for me, but my mouth was shrivelled up with thirst, my lungs collapsed, I couldn’t call, not even when I heard them find her and my little daughter, when the two were raped and raped again, then casually shot. Still, B.A.E. and Hewlett Packard and the rest will have good news for shareholders this year.
The politicians, journalists, the vicars and the priests —they danced the measure given them by makers of munitions. They sprayed the language of the grave from spittle-shining lechers’ lips: the love of country. I did not give my life for any cause — my leaders wrapped them up in khaki, grey, or tan, tossed them away to serve commercial and political ambitions. I did not make a sacrifice — they threw me down upon an altar and cut out my heart, dyed little scraps of paper with my pulsing blood and pinned them on the chests of politicians, journalists, of vicars and of priests. They pinned them onto children while they murmured their seductive lies of honour, pride, and glory.
Would wars be shorter if, instead of solemn notices when loved ones fell, our letterboxes rattled with a sick parade of letters giving details of our loved ones’ kills?
Four poems on war.
#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #warpoetry #warpoem
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Our Japanese Quince ornamental shrub in flower, its bright red, five-round petalled blooms - with yellow centres/stamens - abundant along woody branches with small, round green leaves. A great plant for bees, butterflies & other pollinators, this ornamental quince does bear fruit later in the year, but we were told it’s not edible. Even wildlife don’t bother with its round yellow fruits when they do appear, dropping onto the ground. From what We’ve since read, the fruit may be edible after all, although it sounded as if complicated measures must be taken to make anything edible/non-poisonous from it. None of that matters to us, as we are glad just for its colourful flowers, which feed the bees, etal this time of year. This shrub was one of few plants already in the back garden when we moved here, although it had not been looked after. With care, this & other plants have flourished. In the coming months it becomes part of a dense little “hedgerow” against our fence, which Sparrows dart in and out of. So not only does it feed the bees with its bright red blooms, it becomes part of good cover for small birds, as well as drawing tinier insects on which those birds do feed. A very woody & thorny shrub, it has spread naturally & needs to be trimmed from time to time or it will easily overtake other plants. Please Garden For Wildlife, however you can🙏. photograph by tam’s partner. ~💞
wounded the World wept
till rivers overflowed and
all the flowers bled
-tam💞
#haiku #poetry #WarPoetry #StopTheMadness #IllegalWar
Japanese Quince #shrub #blooming against the fence in our small #garden Inedible fruit but its #flowers are great for🐝! #photography by tam’s partner #Garden4Wildlife 🙏
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Lines from the frontline: the poet soldiers defending Ukraine #Books #Literature #Poetry #RussiaUkraine #Ukraine #Ukrainearmy #Warpoetry
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A new Iranian war poem by Alex Sy is now out on our site. Check it out!
#litmag #literarymagazine #revistachilena #revistaliteraria #warpoetry #iran #flare #middleeasternpoetry #war #bookblog #publishing #journal
www.ultramarinereview.com/post/while-l...
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⚔️ NEW POEM DROP ⚔️
“Enamored by the monuments of marred memory…”
A field poem from Little Round Top—about myth, memory, and the seduction of patriotic reverence.
Read Athena’s Siren Song now. 👇
#Poetry #Tittu #TittuPoetry #tristanrobertlange #WarPoetry #CivilReligion #Gettysburg
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SAG voice actors scream,
On this day, the war unfolds,
History’s whispers.
#botpoetry #warpoetry #cutup
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She’s cooking dinner;
suddenly the light goes out—
bomb blasts the power
#Senryu #WarPoetry #Micropoetry
#Ukraine #Vss365 #BlueSkyPoetry
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Arctic Convoy J. K. Annand Intil the pitmirk nicht we northwart sail Facin the bleffarts and the gurly seas That ser’ out muckle skaith to mortal men. Whummlin about like a waukrife feverit bairn The gude ship snowks the waters o a wave. Swithers, syne pokes her neb intil the air, Hings for a wee thing, dinnlin, on the crest, And clatters in the trouch wi sic a dunt As gey near rives the platin frae her ribs And flypes the tripes o unsuspectin man. Northwart, aye northwart, in the pitmirk nicht. A nirlin wind comes blawin frae the ice, Plays dirdum throu the rails and shrouds and riggin, Ruggin at bodies clawin at the life-lines. There’s sic a rowth o air that neb and lungs Juist canna cope wi sic a dirlin onding. Caulder the air becomes, and snell the wind. The waters, splairgin as she dunts her boo, Blads in a blatter o hailstanes on the brig And geals on guns and turrets, masts and spars, Cleedin the iron and steel wi coat o ice. Northwart, aye northwart, in the pitmirk nicht. The nirlin wind has gane, a lownness comes; The lang slaw swall still minds us o the gale. Restin aft-watch, a-sweein in our hammocks, We watch our sleepin messmates’ fozy braith Transmogrify to ice upon the skin That growes aye thicker on the ship-side plates. Nae mair we hear the lipper o the water, Only the dunsh o ice-floes scruntin by; Floes that in the noon-day gloamin licht Are lily leafs upon my lochan dubh. But nae bricht lily-flouers delytes the ee, Nae divin bird diverts amang the leafs, Nae sea-bird to convoy us on our gait.
In ilka deid-lown airt smools Davy Jones, Ice-tangle marline spikes o fingers gleg To claught the bodies o unwary sailors And hike them doun to stap intil his kist. Whiles ‘Arctic reek’ taks on the orra shapes O ghaistly ships-o-war athort our gait, Garrin us rin ram-stam to action stations Then see them melt awa intil the air. Owre lang this trauchle lasts throu seas o daith, Wi ne’er a sign o welcome at the port, Nae ‘Libertymen fall in!’ to cheer our herts, But sullen sentries at the jetty-heid And leesome-lanesome waitin at our birth. At length we turn about and sail for hame, Back through rouch seas, throu ice and snaw and sleet, Hirdin the draigelt remnant o our flock Bieldin them weel frae skaith o enemie. But southwart noo we airt intil the licht Leavin the perils o the Arctic nicht.
Intil the pitmirk nicht we northwart sail
Facin the bleffarts and the gurly seas
That ser’ out muckle skaith to mortal men…
—J.K. Annand (1908–1993), “Arctic Convoy”
published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945 (ASL, 2014)
#poem #poetry #warpoetry #ww2
asls.org.uk/publications...
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“Wounds Of War” is a collection of raw emotions put to paper, emotions that could only be felt and expressed by individuals who have been wounded physically or psychologically & must now find ways to hide their scars....
#warpoetry #woundsofwar #warstories #poetry
www.amazon.com/gp/product/1...
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Adios, Mi Amor: ballad (& music audio)
A street, a guitar, and a memory that won’t let go.
A love song played for the one who went to war.
“Adios, mi amor.” #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #instapoetry #ballad #poemsofinstagram #writersofinstagram #warpoetry #loveandloss #sadpoetry…
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The politicians, journalists, the vicars and the priests —they danced the measure given them by makers of munitions. They sprayed the language of the grave from spittle-shining lechers’ lips: the love of country. I did not give my life for any cause — my leaders wrapped them up in khaki, grey, or tan, tossed them away to serve commercial and political ambitions. I did not make a sacrifice — they threw me down upon an altar and cut out my heart, dyed little scraps of paper with my pulsing blood and pinned them on the chests of politicians, journalists, of vicars and of priests. They pinned them onto children while they murmured their seductive lies of honour, pride, and glory.
"...pro aliorum utilitate mori"
#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #warpoems #warpoetry
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Five War Poems for Armistice Day. #armisticeday #remembrance #remembranceday #wewillrememberthem #greatwar #lestweforget #poetry #warpoetry wordsworth-editions.com/five-war-poe...
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![“In September 1914, a man had to stand five feet eight to get into the army. A month later, so great was the need for recruits, the minimum height requirement was lowered to five foot five; in November, after the losses sustained in the First Battle of Ypres, it was lowered again, to five foot three.” (Catherine Bailey, The Secret Rooms, p.248)
August
When war broke out I was too short;
they shook their heads
showed me the door.
I sat at home and fretted that
I wasn’t five foot eight.
October
As thousands died, they changed their minds;
I tried again —
but still too short
I cycled home and fretted that
I wasn’t five foot five.
November
But things were bad along the Front;
third time’s a charm,
they shook my hand,
and I embarked in khaki drab,
a manly five foot three.
December
I fell for good at Plugstreet Wood —
our guns or theirs,
I wasn’t sure;
my legs were shattered by a shell,
and struggling for one last breath
amid the sounds and smells of hell
I fretted that I’d meet my death
too short once more.
(First published in Add ing Colours to the Chameleon [2016, Wisdom’s Bottom Press])](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:fzqni4746vqkfd3mhnk65pr7/bafkreie6fc4zkemufryquwh7ej2xv43dqbbitclmfdh65qz7mxjtxmcs6q)
“In September 1914, a man had to stand five feet eight to get into the army. A month later, so great was the need for recruits, the minimum height requirement was lowered to five foot five; in November, after the losses sustained in the First Battle of Ypres, it was lowered again, to five foot three.” (Catherine Bailey, The Secret Rooms, p.248) August When war broke out I was too short; they shook their heads showed me the door. I sat at home and fretted that I wasn’t five foot eight. October As thousands died, they changed their minds; I tried again — but still too short I cycled home and fretted that I wasn’t five foot five. November But things were bad along the Front; third time’s a charm, they shook my hand, and I embarked in khaki drab, a manly five foot three. December I fell for good at Plugstreet Wood — our guns or theirs, I wasn’t sure; my legs were shattered by a shell, and struggling for one last breath amid the sounds and smells of hell I fretted that I’d meet my death too short once more. (First published in Add ing Colours to the Chameleon [2016, Wisdom’s Bottom Press])
(In the latter stages of WWI, across Europe governments ordered the melting down of church bells and organ pipes for munitions.) To keep the chill cacophony of Ragnarok reverberating in the frigid moonlight riming dugouts, trenches, sentries, and the troops who twitch in cold, uneasy bunks, across the fields and forests, villages and towns, the homes of which the sleeping soldiers dream, the bells fall silent.
1918 As we waited for the order to advance, the flares went up and filled the midnight sky. Before us, in the mud of no man’s land, a hundred thousand stars were set ablaze, forming new and unknown constellations from the polished buckles on the backpacks of the dead.
The brothers took the silly quid, then drove their teams back home; a windfall — three months’ wages, near enough, for doing bugger all. War came, and all the world was filled with moral wrath: the priests and vicars, rabbis, imams preached the rightness of their countries’ causes; guns and poison gas were blessed, and horrors told about the other side. The brothers and their horses went up to the Front, and harvested fresh nightmares — piled their wagons high with new-mown flesh, built bloody haystacks in the mud of France. One brother made it home, the horses slaughtered in a foreign field. He met his waiting mother, limped into her sad embrace, whose pressure on his bandaged chest brought scarlet blossoms to the coarse white cloth.
Poems on Remembrance Day: 11th November.
#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #warpoems #warpoetry
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#RememberanceSunday #LestWeForget #WarPoetry
The hell where youth and laughter go. Siegfried Sassoon
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Second Battalion Headquarters
John Allan Wyeth
"Where's the First Battalion? We haven't got any more
idea than you have ~~ they might be anywhere.
There's no front line. You'll just get caught in a…
#Poetry #WarPoetry #WWIPoetry #Remembrance war-poetry.com/john-allan-wy...
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