"haig" poems - Hello Poetry

How to stop time: kiss. How to travel in time: read. How to escape time: music. How to feel time: write. How to release time: breathe. -Matt Haig

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Nov 16, 2017

Nov 16, 2017 at 1:25 AM UTC

Pacificbetta

Self-Help (Matt Haig)

How to stop time: kiss. How to travel in time: read. How to escape time: music. How to feel time: write. How to release time: breathe. -Matt Haig

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Five months on the front Between Arras and Albert Both sides hunt For the other Redcoats and Frogs side by side Putting away their hate Both filled with pride To fight Drain the Fritz of their resources Push them back as far as they could But the enemy observes And are waiting Huge frontal attack, approached on foot Ordered by General Haig The Germans stayed put And killed from afar July 1st was day one November 18th was the last When all the guns Were dead It was the bloodiest battle anyone saw Over one million deceased No mortal law Ruled here 13 Kilometers were gained Using tanks and heavy gear Reserves were drained Yet no one cared Friends, fathers, husbands, brothers, Fought and lost their lives For the children, sisters, wives and mothers Who were left behind Only gravediggers make money here

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Jan 24, 2014

Jan 24, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC

samantha-jane

The Battle of Somme

Five months on the front Between Arras and Albert Both sides hunt For the other Redcoats and Frogs side by side Putting away their hate Both filled with pride To fight Drain the Fritz of their resources Push them back as far as they could But the enemy observes And are waiting Huge frontal attack, approached on foot Ordered by General Haig The Germans stayed put And killed from afar July 1st was day one November 18th was the last When all the guns Were dead It was the bloodiest battle anyone saw Over one million deceased No mortal law Ruled here 13 Kilometers were gained Using tanks and heavy gear Reserves were drained Yet no one cared Friends, fathers, husbands, brothers, Fought and lost their lives For the children, sisters, wives and mothers Who were left behind Only gravediggers make money here

33

It sits there on the sideboard Or on the mantle shelf, And after such a long time You don’t notice it yourself. But should you have a visitor Or younger child come by It will spark interest anew And gasps of “Me oh my!” It’s then the curious wonder How the ship was put inside, And where the opening’s concealed And was it hard to hide? And if you put it in there How many times you tried? And if it went in through the neck How could it be so wide? It’s then you tell the story Of going to the store To find a bottle of good clear glass With a shape worth planning for. Dimple Haig is famous, Carduh’s pretty fair, The first one is triangular, The other one is square. The bottle must be decanted, When empty cleaned and dried, And a careful measure taken Of the dimensions inside. It’s then you render drawings Of the ship you want to make, And plan out going backwards Every step you’ll have to take. First you carve the hull Of wood with grain that’s fine, Then step the masts with hinges So they fold down in a line. You add the sails and rigging, Check how they’ll ***** When’s time to pull the halyards Through the bottle’s neck. It takes months to finish Doing a little every night, I had my children watching And remarking at the sight. They saw me put in plasticine To mold and shape the ocean And carve wave crests with a spoon To give the water motion. When at last the time is right And everything is ready You carefully set the ship upon The sea and hold it steady. Then pulling on each halyard The sails are slowly raised And those who watch the process Stand enchanted and amazed.

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May 5, 2018

May 5, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC

neil-s-mcleod

A Ship In A Bottle

It sits there on the sideboard Or on the mantle shelf, And after such a long time You don’t notice it yourself. But should you have a visitor Or younger child come by It will spark interest anew And gasps of “Me oh my!” It’s then the curious wonder How the ship was put inside, And where the opening’s concealed And was it hard to hide? And if you put it in there How many times you tried? And if it went in through the neck How could it be so wide? It’s then you tell the story Of going to the store To find a bottle of good clear glass With a shape worth planning for. Dimple Haig is famous, Carduh’s pretty fair, The first one is triangular, The other one is square. The bottle must be decanted, When empty cleaned and dried, And a careful measure taken Of the dimensions inside. It’s then you render drawings Of the ship you want to make, And plan out going backwards Every step you’ll have to take. First you carve the hull Of wood with grain that’s fine, Then step the masts with hinges So they fold down in a line. You add the sails and rigging, Check how they’ll ***** When’s time to pull the halyards Through the bottle’s neck. It takes months to finish Doing a little every night, I had my children watching And remarking at the sight. They saw me put in plasticine To mold and shape the ocean And carve wave crests with a spoon To give the water motion. When at last the time is right And everything is ready You carefully set the ship upon The sea and hold it steady. Then pulling on each halyard The sails are slowly raised And those who watch the process Stand enchanted and amazed.

56

Well, the maps were quite ghastly, you know; We’d assumed the Frogs would have a pleasure cruise, All baguettes and brioche, up the straits. We’d no idea the Turks had dug in as they did, As the spooks and their charts Revealed sheer cliffs, Harmless as Dover. Nor did we fare much better on dry land, The topographical atlases we had in the field Might have been compiled by Mercator himself. The Turks fought quite well; One gives them a measure of credit for that, one supposes. Frankly, we’d have been better served If we’d just waited for the de rigueur internecine slaughter, What with the ease they’d hacked each other to bits Over some ancient family squabble or inconsequential tribal matter (Can you imagine civilized peoples Fighting to the death over such trivia?) I suppose such cruelty and boorishness Should have not been surprising. They wouldn’t take prisoners, you know; Just shot our boys willy-nilly, With no regard whatsoever to honor or military convention, Though it should have been no surprise That the swarthy ******** would not play by the rules.

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Sep 26, 2017

Sep 26, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC

wk-kortas

In Which Colonel Cecil “Bongo” Eton-Haig DSO, DSC (6th Battalion Kings Own, Ret.) Reflects On The Unpleasantry Of The Turkish Campaign From His Accustomed Chair, Army and Navy Club, London

Well, the maps were quite ghastly, you know; We’d assumed the Frogs would have a pleasure cruise, All baguettes and brioche, up the straits. We’d no idea the Turks had dug in as they did, As the spooks and their charts Revealed sheer cliffs, Harmless as Dover. Nor did we fare much better on dry land, The topographical atlases we had in the field Might have been compiled by Mercator himself. The Turks fought quite well; One gives them a measure of credit for that, one supposes. Frankly, we’d have been better served If we’d just waited for the de rigueur internecine slaughter, What with the ease they’d hacked each other to bits Over some ancient family squabble or inconsequential tribal matter (Can you imagine civilized peoples Fighting to the death over such trivia?) I suppose such cruelty and boorishness Should have not been surprising. They wouldn’t take prisoners, you know; Just shot our boys willy-nilly, With no regard whatsoever to honor or military convention, Though it should have been no surprise That the swarthy ******** would not play by the rules.

25

There was a skeleton of a German soldier in a ditch; his helmet still in place, the uniform mud-stained. In a pocket a sepia photo of some girl smiling with curly hair, looking out with her dark eyed stare. His comrades and army had moved away; pushed back with last week's shelling. Albert inhaled his cigarette. It was hard to picture him now crippled with arthritis and age in war's fight and mud and lice, singing an old song amidst the throng. He gazed at me; his eyes glassy; smoke from the cigarette rising past eyes. We left him there, Albert said, had to move on, Haig's orders, our sergeant said. Death was all around us; bodies, limbs and heads; horses lying in mud wounded moaning or dead. The stink of war, boy; gets in your hair and clothes and nose and skin, in the soul, if we have one, within.

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Sep 30, 2017

Sep 30, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC

TerryCollett

Skeleton of a Dead Soldier MCMXV.

There was a skeleton of a German soldier in a ditch; his helmet still in place, the uniform mud-stained. In a pocket a sepia photo of some girl smiling with curly hair, looking out with her dark eyed stare. His comrades and army had moved away; pushed back with last week's shelling. Albert inhaled his cigarette. It was hard to picture him now crippled with arthritis and age in war's fight and mud and lice, singing an old song amidst the throng. He gazed at me; his eyes glassy; smoke from the cigarette rising past eyes. We left him there, Albert said, had to move on, Haig's orders, our sergeant said. Death was all around us; bodies, limbs and heads; horses lying in mud wounded moaning or dead. The stink of war, boy; gets in your hair and clothes and nose and skin, in the soul, if we have one, within.

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