#somme
The years stung with field gun smoke,
as the stench of accusations hung
among the aging towers of power.
Stark whistles pierced the mourning air
bringing tears to eyes spared any true battle.
And after a respectful silence, sodden with sacrifice,
the drizzled grandchildren turned away
for a Starbucked start of a brand new day.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
They lied to us
with preacher smiles
at Sunday school
They told us
our world was created
in six days
We stood as one
as our world was created
in seven days
We stood as one
as light sprang from darkness
and earth fell from heaven
And after seven days
we stood as one
and marched into hell
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
Hell, or something close to it,
Or worse;
For they would have longed for the warmth of fire -
To feel more than the sodden stink of their boots
And the thunder of Howitzers in their bones.
But they knew the victory was coming.
Eight days, that would be enough.
Letting death fall
In the half-silence of creeping gas
And the unrelenting barrage of mortar fire
Raining like demonic hail upon the enemy.
They knew that victory was coming.
So they walked, that's all it would take -
A stroll to be heroes.
But all the waiting, enduring, lasting out
To climb up onto the crater-filled sludge,
Mown down in thousands,
And only then did they realise:
Victory was so much further away.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
Take a moment to stop and stare,
At memorials in your town,
The named names that never came home,
Some had died at The Somme,
No shouts no shots no whistles,
No guns no bangs no shells,
No barbed wire or trenches,
And no gun powder smells,
All is very quite now,
After one hundred years,
Unlike the time the dead were named,
When families shed their tears,
No khaki uniforms no tin hats,
No bayonets to stab a heart,
No body parts no blood no gore,
No grenades to blow you apart,
Silently remembering,
Their memory lingers on,
They fought for King and country,
And died there at The Somme.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
Each day I come
to Master George's room,
each day, Gripe says,
Polly keep it fresh
just in case.
As soon as
I open the door
I feel a shudder.
I fear he will not return,
that he will remain
in hospital of some kind
for ever, his mind shattered
by this War,
by what he saw,
his wounded mind.
I read that 19,240 men
were killed on the first day
of the Somme,
and 57,470 wounded,
of which he was one.
When will this War be over,
when will it be won?
I walk around
to the window,
and open it up.
Let air in,
refresh the room.
The curtains flap
in the incoming draft,
like wings of a bird
taking off in flight.
I begin to polish
the furniture, even though
I did it yesterday,
and the day before.
I smell him around me,
his scent, his shaving soap,
his having been here.
I look at the bed,
and remember how
we made love there
at his invitation,
me a maid, and he
the young master.
I put down the polish
and duster, and go
and sit on the bed,
bounce it a little.
I stare out at the view
of the window.
Trees sway, birds fly,
clouds drift by.
He kissed each
aspect of me,
kisses everywhere,
his lips there,
and his moustache
tickling me to giggles.
Now he is broken,
mind fragile as aged paper.
When he came
back here briefly,
he spoke of a man's head
sitting by his side
gazing at him,
a hand of one man
lying still on the trench
by his eyes.
I close my eyes,
and want him back,
back here, back mended,
and this War ended.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
Sun swollen
reddening as it sank
that brutal ****** disc
scored by church steeples
and chimney stacks
almost lost in the drifting haze
of sulphurous yellow
and char-black smoke.
Duck boards dip
into the sodden earth
as men ***** along in conga lines
holding tight the pack of the man
in front, lest they should slip
lose quick their footing
be ****** down and smothered
by mud.
The walls of the tunnels
are packed earth
rich with blood and bone
bits and pieces of human
anatomy dangle and hang
as if posed by an artist
with a strange and cruel eye
for detail.
The scrabble for fox holes
and rough scraped ditches,
anywhere, below the line of fire.
The ting and whiz-bang
of a night of action
The whistle, the dash
and the forward push
counted more in men
than metres.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
(Inspired by my great grandfather)
Capt: Albert Victor Champion RHA
Children of the Somme, men of mud and water
killed by lead and steel, for them no last supper
no last meal. Children of the Somme, consumed
by mud and water, sent in there thousands
to their slaughter.
Nerves that were shattered,breath that was shallow
felled in fields that were lifeless and fallow.
Hearts that were pounding, bodies that trembled
as in the trenches men assembled.
like an order from god they awaited there place,
to go over the top and stare death in the face.
Men of all nations men of all ages; condemned
to there death and the history books pages.
Lest we forget..................... Remember them.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC