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> War Poems, The war seen from a poet's eyes.
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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 11:47 AM
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Bivouac On A Mountain Side


I see before me now a traveling army halting,
Below a fertile valley spread, with barns and the orchards of summer,
Behind, the terraced sides of a mountain, abrupt, in places rising high,
Broken, with rocks, with clinging cedars, with tall shapes dingily seen,
The numerous camp-fires scatter'd near and far, some away up on the mountain,
The shadowy forms of men and horses, looming, large-sized, flickering,
And all over the sky--the sky! far, far out of reach, studded, breaking out,
the eternal stars.

Walt Whitman



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LadyOfAvalon 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 12:25 PM
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That is a beautiful poem about a traveling army on it's way to war...and as we read it we can certainly see it as he did for it must have been a striking sight in the night sky!!!

Thank you for sharing it with us tallerlacuba.

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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 12:48 PM
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The Bivouac In The Snow


Halt! - the march is over,
Day is almost done;
Loose the cumbrous knapsack,
Drop the heavy gun.
Chilled and wet and weary,
Wander to and fro,
Seeking wood to kindle
Fires amidst the snow.

Round the bright blaze gather,
Heed not sleet or cold;
Ye are Spartan soldiers,
Stout and brave and bold.
Never Xerxian army
Yet subdued a foe
Who but asked a blanket
On a bed of snow.


Shivering, 'midst the darkness,
Christian men are found,
There devoutly kneeling
On the frozen ground -
Pleading for their country,
In its hour of woe -
For the soldiers marching
Shoeless through the snow.


Lost in heavy slumbers,
Free from toil and strife,
Dreaming of their dear ones -
Home, and child, and wife -
Tentless they are lying,
While the fires burn low -
Lying in their blankets
'Midst December's snow.



Margaret Junkin Preston

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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 12:51 PM
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I°m glad you to like it dear Queen.

There are winds of war in our kingdom and it's always good to see the other hand of the war.

Specially as this is just a game.

tallerlacuba of Idealand
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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 01:28 PM
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Shiloh - A Requiem
(April 1862)


Skimming lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly low
Over the field in clouded days,
The forest-field of Shiloh -
Over the field where April rain
Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain
Through the pause of night
That followed the Sunday fight
Around the church of Shiloh -
The church so lone, the log-built one,
That echoed to many a parting groan
And natural prayer
Of dying foemen mingled there -
Foemen at morn, but friends at eve
Fame or country least their care:
(What like a bullet can undeceive!)
But now they lie low,
While over them the swallows skim,
And all is hushed at Shiloh.


Herman Melville

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LadyOfAvalon 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 01:57 PM
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QUOTE (tallerlacuba @ 11-Jan-2009, 12:51 PM)
I°m glad you to like it dear Queen.

There are winds of war in our kingdom and it's always good to see the other hand of the war.

Specially as this is just a game.

tallerlacuba of Idealand

Dear tallerlacuba,

Though I am not the moderator of this forum by all means.I just would like to point out though that these forums should not in any way be associated with the game.

These forums are intended for members that are interested in poetry.A place to share their own compositions, and read about them, and comment on them.
Not intended or related to the game in any way.

Without offense please understand that you can post poems that you find could be of interests for the members of Celtic Radio but do not refer the meanings of them to the game for they are irrelevant in these forums.

Anything that you are posting and post it in reference to the game should be posted in MK. not in other threads or forums.

I read this poem and commented on it from my personal view therefore was not done so in regards of the game at all.And my title as "Queen" is irrelevant in here for I am Lady of Avalon.

I hope you understand.
Just a friendly advice to you.

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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 02:11 PM
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Dauntless Dan


The cry went up for volunteers
To join the battle van
And then we gave three lusty cheers
And said here's Dauntless Dan!
For years upon the football field
He's been well to the fore
But to no living man he'll yield
In hatred of the Boer
They tried his ardour for to damp
By regulations stringent
But now he's in the Newtown Camp
Among the Fifth Contingent
They took him to the rifle butts
To try how he could aim
Although they said both eyes he shut
He got there all the same
He passed well through the riding test
Without a single spill
And now he ranks among the best
Does the Dauntless Dan McGill


Maurice McGill (for his father - Boer War 1899-1902)

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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 02:20 PM
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Sorry Dear lady,

I didn't try to talk about the game here, I just mentioned it accidentally when trying to thank you, butI have posted just the poems without any reference to anything or anybody.

In any case I understand what you mean and you can be sure I won't do it.

Have a NiceDay

tallerlacuba of Idealand
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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 02:26 PM
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Drummer Hodge


They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined - just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.


Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellation reign
His stars eternally.



Thomas Hardy (Boer War)

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Killian 
Posted: 11-Jan-2009, 04:14 PM
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Very nice poems - yes indeed - lets just be careful about copyright. If these are recent poems created by an author or writer we need their permission to post. If they are older 50+ years or so or public domain then it probably is ok.

thanks! angel_not.gif


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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 12-Jan-2009, 08:02 PM
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Thank you Lady killian

I'll be carefull of that.

tallerlacuba of Idealand
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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 12-Jan-2009, 08:05 PM
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Ubique


There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may -
'You bike,' 'you bikwe,' 'ubbikwe' - alludin' to R.A.
It serves 'Orse, Field, an' Garrison as motto for a crest,
An' when you've found out all it means I'll tell you 'alf the rest.

Ubique means the long-range Krupp be'ind the low-range 'ill -
Ubique means you'll pick it up an', while you do stand, still.
Ubique means you've caught the flash an' timed it by the sound.
Ubique means five gunners' 'ash before you've loosed a round.


Ubique means Blue Fuse1, an' make the 'ole to sink the trail. 1extreme range
Ubique means stand up an' take the Mauser's 'alf-mile 'ail.
Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can 'old.
Ubique means that 'orse's scream which turns your innards cold.


Ubique means 'Bank, 'Olborn, Bank - a penny all the way -
The soothin' jingle-bump-an'-clank from day to peaceful day.
Ubique means 'They've caught De Wet, an' now we sha'n't be long.'
Ubique means 'I much regret, the beggar's going strong!'


Ubique means the tearin' drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud,
The khaki muzzles duck an' lift across the khaki flood.
Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers.
Ubique means the mirage again an' shellin' all outdoors.


Ubique means 'Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein'!
Ubique means 'Off-load your guns' - at midnight in the rain!
Ubique means 'More mounted men. Return all guns to store.'
Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps!


Ubique means the warnin' grunt the perished linesman knows,
When o'er 'is strung an' sufferin' front the shrapnel sprays 'is foes,
An' as their firin' dies away the 'usky whisper runs
From lips that 'aven't drunk all day: 'The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!'


Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any'ow,
From Colesberg Kop to Quagga's Poort - from Ninety-Nine till now -



Rudyard Kipling

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tallerlacuba 
Posted: 13-Jan-2009, 06:45 PM
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Untitled


The glamour gone, some scattered graves and memories dim remain:
With his old pals across the field, he'll never trek again;
But yet there's nothing he regrets as he awaits his Call,
For what was done or lost or won, he did his bit - that's all.


Sergeant 4486

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stoirmeil 
Posted: 14-Jan-2009, 12:04 PM
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Have a look into the crop of poems that came out of one of those wars where the completely crushed and outmastered losers were also the unequivocal "good guys" -- the Spanish Civil War. There is a Penguin anthology of Spanish Civil War poetry in print. I recommend the poems of Miles Tomalin, whose beautiful work ranged in style from Kipling-esque, to something more like Whitman, to something like Frost, to modern free verse. Here is a lyric of his that takes from the poetic tradition of the fallen dead speaking to the living, but because of the political shadow over this war, it has a bitterness and ambivalence that earlier, more patriotic British war poetry (like "In Flanders Fields") does not carry -- except maybe for Wilfred Owen, whom you might also like looking at, if this stuff interests you. Had there been a real response from the nations to this run-up war in Spain during the rise of Fascism, the incredible destruction of World War II might have been greatly held back:


To England from the English Dead

We who were English once had eyes and saw
The savage greed of those who made this war
Tear up from earth, like a hog loose in flowers
So many lives as young and strong as ours.
You, England, stood apart from Spainís affair,
You said you were secure in sea and cliff
While others sank in filthy war, as if
You kept some old virginity in there.
While the black armies marched and the dead fell,
You told your English people all was well,
And shutting eyes to war was finding peace.
You told them once, all slavery must cease.
Dishonourable England! We in Spain
Who died, died proudly, but not in your name;
Our friends will keep the love we felt for you
Among your moist green landscapes and smooth hills,
Talk of it over honest window sills
And teach our children we were not untrue.
Not for those others, more like alien men
Who, quick to please our slayers, let them pass,
Not for them,
We English lie beneath the Spanish grass.

Miles Tomalin

(The reference "Not for those others . . .who . . .let them pass" makes reference to the republican battle cry "No pasaran" -- they shall not pass.)
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Camac
Posted: 14-Jan-2009, 02:02 PM
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Legate, I had the news last night, my cohort ordered home
By ship to Portus Itius and then by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stacked below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go.

I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That call me to my native land, I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made, here where my work
was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid, my wife--my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah how can I remove?

For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folks and fields surfice
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,
Black with Decembers snows unshed or pearled with August haze
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or Junes long-lighted days?

You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine and olive lean
Aslant before the summer breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelates' triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore decending pines
Where blue as any peacocks' neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but will you er'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken when it's wet?

Let me work here for Britains' sake, at any task you will
A marsh to drain, a road to make, or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.

Legate, I come to you in tears, My cohort ordered home!
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind, the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go

THE ROMAN CENTURIONS' SONG by Rudyard Kipling.




               
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