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Jean-Rémy Duboc Nov 2020
Triple onze
Dix huit;

C’est presque comme
Un dimanche ordinaire;
Les commercants, demain, seront dans leur boutique,
Camionneurs et taxis
Auront repris la route,
Et on se régalera dans les estaminets.

Et les enfants, bien sûr,
Viendront sans inquiétude
Dans la cour de leur école.

(Comme il se doit,
Ils seront libres.)

Et c’est à eux, surtout,
que les soldats,
au repos dans la colline,
Dans le sommeil heureux du devoir accompli.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
At Wilfred Owen’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch

A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.

Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.

Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, Other Voices International

Keywords/Tags: Wilfred, Owen, war, poem, trench, warfare, chlorine, gas, gangrene, armistice, ergotherapists, Craiglockhart, Sassoon, Yeats, honor, lies, gag, gagged, gagging, death, grave, funeral, elegy, eulogy, tribute, World War I
Yue Wang Yitkbel Nov 2019
V.O. in German accent: A nobody's words are worth nothing to a girl with everything to hope for.


That girl sitting across from me

What is she thinking about?

The stoic hair deprived of imagination and anticipation

The blissfully resting eyelids

And, I don't know how many cigarettes.

I would suspect her story goes like this:

I would imagine, her dream was once not far from this:

A young girl, not yet awoken by the coming war

The light flowery dress drifting in a wave of the sun

There was excitement awaiting accomplishment and truth in those delightful attires.

It shows, even in your braided hair under that little hat.

Your own breath of living was soaked in a perfume of poetry.

Your future was engraved in an oath for truth.

I am sure, someone have told you it is not right.

What is real, what is the sorrow of the merry pantomime?

You have to believe me, that it is full of flaws.

In lies, you have to live under expected disappointment.


What was she really thinking about?

A dream? The faith by fault?

Or her youth, swimming around in a flight of wind.

Maybe, it was this.

The blood, and the missing arms.

The rain, and the collapsing edifice.


War, yes yes, It must have been war!

Another war to end all war.

To victory before Christmas,

They set foot in the No Man's Land of Sure Death.

How many young voices have been silenced

On the quiet front.

Yes, girl sitting across from me,

How many of your friends joined you

For Christmas.

Did you finally acknowledge the truth?

Your dream and your justice are not at

Mercy under your ink and quill, but

The brutality of the cannons and guns.

War, it awakened you.

Awakened the ****** from her sleep.


Oh, she's not thinking about anything!

Dream, she has lost it all.

Wind has blown them away.

Everything is inevitable.

Blood, the lost limbs.

The Rain only washed away the bullet shells.


The final battle was not to battle.

The final hatred was to give up faith.

Let the butterfly dreams fly.

Lead the wandering life to exile.

Life, you have seen all the cruelty.

Cruelty, you have welcomed the red death.

No more, let my horrid features frighten and enlighten

The yet unconscious.

The screams have already drowned inside my alcohol.

The woman sitting across from me,

The war brought you back.

No, not back to your silly dreams

Your sunshine passion.

Yes, back to the quiet truth,

Truth, that mesmerizing hypnotic drug inside your glass.

The Final Question and Answer:

What was she really thinking about?

A dream? The faith by fault?

Or her youth, swimming around in a flight of wind.

Maybe, it was this.

The blood and the missing arms.

The rain and the collapsing edifice.

Oh, she's not thinking about anything!

Dream, she has lost it all.

Wind has blown them away.

Everything is inevitable.

Blood, the lost limbs.

The Rain, only washed away the bullet shells.
Lest We Forget

The Journalist Sylvia

By: Yue Yitkbel Xing ****

Thursday, May 9th, 2013 1:12AM
gabrielle Jan 2019
shoot me with the words of yours

oh, you can't ?

was it a fair ceasefire because it is hurtful

or it was out of pity ?
don't worry, i'm okay.
Aimee McDonald Dec 2018
I've seen your trenches,and I've seen your graves,
I've heard of your weapons and heard of your slaves,
I've imagined the fumes and imagined the rain,
I've imagined the sights but can't imagine the pain.
Not from bayonets,nor shrapnel blasting out,
But from the vision of the gunshot taking the Fritz down.
From the riddling guilt as your hand pulled the trigger,
Which wiped out the unknown,young German figure.
From the nightmares of his family collapsing at the news,
That their beloved son had succumbed to his wounds.
You look over these beaten fields awash with confusion,
Wondering how on Earth humans partake in such delusion.
How they thought,somehow,it'd be the most fitting plan:
"To sort out all of the world's problems-set man after man!".
You walked out on that field regardless, till your last dying breath.
And you made sure,under all circumstances, to fight until death.
For this I'm forever grateful and still can't suffice,
Why we give you two minutes a year, when you gave us your life.
Aduain Nov 2018
Generals and Admirals,
making the decisions
On squaddies lives and welfare
Creating the divisions
These combat explanations
The dictionary assigns
The following descriptions
Only the words benign.

A fight between armed forces,
Or, Take action to reduce;
The need for family losses?
Or more souls abuse?
Down among the soldiers
Is there anything more obtuse?
Stood by an adolescent shoulder,
Death in hands to use.

Brigadiers and Field Marshalls creed,
Battles must be won!
With no time for a private’s need
Or their families at home.
One day, with waiting over
Lovers may return,
Some that is, the others
Died in Hades, so listen, learn!

They died, and in their passing
Our freedom they allowed
Take heed, do not stop asking
Be heard and scream out loud,
To those we must make listen
To historical loud spoor
where fields of blood still glisten,
Please! Let peace endure….
Today I put a little flag
Down, beside a stone
Where grass and weeds were rampant
And the plot was overgrown

I knew not where he came from
I did not know his name
But, today I left a flag for him
As I'm sure he'd do the same

Today I put a little flag
Beside a soldiers lonely plot
Just to show we thank you
And that nobody forgot

A little flag beside a stone
For one who gave his all
A little flag beside a stone
For answering the call

Today I put a little flag
It waves there in the cold
For a soldier lies beneath the earth
Never ever growing old

A simple little gesture
For a soldier long since dead
I cleaned away the grass and growth
So his story could be read

Today I put a little flag
And I hope you'll do the same
Just to show that you were there
Though you do not know their name

Maybe leave a poppy there
It may blow to someone's door
With a thousand other poppies
From those who came before

Today I put a little flag
Beside a stone, so hard and white
For a soldier who gave all he had
Doing what he thought was right

Today I put a little flag
Beside a stone and then I cried
Remembering how young he was
We won't forget just why he died

Today...I put a little flag
Isabella Terry Apr 2018
Is this blood mine or yours?
I want to go home.
I don't know you, and I don't want us to die.
We both lay here, barely alive.

You look scared, a deer glowing faintly in the headlights of a rusty green vehicle.
I can see the tempest of my own fear reflected in your chocolate eyes.
Must we be enemies, only because our homelands are?

I see you finger something under your shirt.
It's probably a snapshot- mine is.
You keep it there to remind you of your promise:
Your oath to lay eyes on them again.

I know that we fight for our countries.
For what we believe to be right.
Do you suppose...that only for tonight
--presumably the last night of our lives--
We could ignore the politics, and just fall asleep together?

In the morning, if either of us wakes up,
We can once again plummet into the ocean of duty and justice and pain.
We can drown in it then.
For now, could we take a swift breath at the top of the waves?
That would be nice.

Neither of us has said a word, but no matter.
Language barrier has not kept you from agreeing with me.
A simple series of countenances has signed our temporary truce in our place.
A mutual gaze of farewell,
As I drift...


Diána Bósa Oct 2016
This heart of mine is
a wanderer nomad and
now it is on the

loose. It became wroth
and restless for the mind is
bowed down; the shameful

armistice is now
signed. Because it is still
aware that if it

gave upon on you,
if it ceased to love, it would
cease to beat eternally.
Maggie Emmett Aug 2014
Morning pallor on a grey day
not a five cent shine
to the sun.

Bitumen hissed all night
trees tossed and tangoed
shuddered and split.

Navy clouds, blue with rain
surfed in from the ocean
racing on the wild wind
learning to scream.

The stones listened
moon listed and tried to find
a space in the cloud-tide rush
to quiet-light the gloom.

Morning Armistice on a pale grey day
of debris and displacement
refugees and leaf litter
surrender and detachment
silent and still
only a five cent shine to the sun

© M.L.Emmett

— The End —