Ghosts of War Poetry
SIII participated in a writing workshop run jointly by the Scottish Poetry Library and the National War Museum at Edinburgh Castle. Below is a selection of the poetry produced during this event.
(In the crash of a wave)
The merriment of the sight of home
The reassuring blaze of purple
Turned in the crash of a fierce wave
To a ferocious whirl of murky water
Concealed by glittering spray
Men gasping in merciless water
Plummeting to the bottomless gloom
Crying out helplessly to the unforgiving, unspeakable sea
Now all that is left is a plain, undamaged bottle
After all their hardships, nature has finally won
With only a simple symbol of remembrance
Concealed by glittering seaweed
by Sophie Stuart-Menteth
Nurse’s Uniform
There you were, standing behind the glass.
I picture you there, in the crowded mass.
I try and imagine what you see and hear.
Mending the injured, you must have been so petrified and filled with fear.
All day I deal with broken bones.
And deal with the soldiers’ moans.
So many sights and horrors I see.
It’s all worth it though, even though I don’t get a fee.
by Amy Macintyre
On thee I serve
It’s old and chipped and has a dent,
I know where it’s been but how can I explain...
I’m given to him,
He’s excited,
He’s lied about his age,
And He’s excited
He holds my rounded side
And then puts me on,
He’s on the train
Every second excitement builds,
The train stops...
The doors open...
He jumps out
And then
Dread, dread and dread
There’s fires and guns
And many wounded.
His smile is gone
The men are needed right away
To the trench,
To the trench,
His fear pecks
His in but I can still see,
The bullets coming,
And then he’s gone.
His first and last helmet,
Falls to the floor,
Covered in mud,
Blood,
And
Gore
But I am needed once more.
by Chloe Lyth
We are in Edinburgh,
In a place that describes a violent history,
It describes many eras, mostly yours,
What was it like, wearing those masks?
Did their dark eyes scare you?
I’m sure you weren’t expecting war to be like this.
War is different now,
people understand the reality of it,
and nobody encourages it,
lives are still lost,
and the sacrifice is never worth the price.
by Christopher Anderson
Is Robbie there or any where
is he still alive
I miss him much more
than I thought I realised
he’s been away for ages
I would hardly recognise.
What is it like being in the war
is it loud and frightening
is it sad and emotional.
the Gas. The Gas is coming for you
I warn you, you have to escape.
Please come back to your home town
it’s too risky to stay there anymore.
Hello it’s not Robbie but one of his friends
Robbie died two days ago
by a gas attack.
All I heard was one voice
screaming and yelling for help
he couldn’t put his mask on
as his beard was way too long
I’m sorry to tell you this horrible story
but it happens all the time
he will be thinking of you
every day every night
till the day you die and onwards.
by Fiona Faint
Gas
Tired and weary, we stumble knee-deep in mud,
Our legs moving of their own accord,
The new boy trips and falls but we stagger on,
Always moving.
A yellow mist forms over the barren land, fluorescent in the light,
We yell in panic and fear as it sweeps over the valley.
A frightened scramble for the gas mask,
Our only hope for survival,
We breathe in the rank, stale air,
All of us no faces, ghosts.
But someone is still shouting,
His spluttering face contorted into screams,
His eyes spinning in his face, blinded.
He falls and twitches in pain,
Yet we walk on emotionless.
As his yells fade, we walk in silence.
All around us we see dead or writhing men,
How many more will die?
How many more?
By Niamh Moran
The Experience
I watched as he sat crouched against the soiled walls of the trench, shaking, shivering with fear,
Cocooned under layers of infested clothes,
As the bitter cold bit at his quivering chapped lips and scarlet cheeks.
I wondered what he was thinking?
Was he thinking how nice it would be to escape from the lice, scavenging rats and puddles of blood filled with ghost like bodies, motionless and sodden?
The ring of the shells making fireworks was torturing those around.
What were we supposed to do?
All we could do is stay alive as long as possible.
A green cloud creeping along the surface of no mans land, causing us to hastily clamber for our gas masks with a stench which could make us sick.
Some weren’t fast enough, clutching their throats, eyes bulging, pleading for help, begging for relief.
This isn’t natural; we had been designed to kill,
We had been turned into monstrous creatures turning against human nature.
When will it end? Will it ever end?
By Karina Bailey
Letters
Letters sent, letter received
They all meant so much to me
Sent from me, received by you
Before the army had gone and lost you.
As I sit and write this back,
I have a large would on my back.
But my days of the army have already shone,
A bullet hit me and now I’m gone.
By Laurie Kirkland
Gas
Dawn,
The yellow light that awoke me from my uneasy sleep,
But not today it did not flood,
A thick green light though did flood
Gas,
The faint wooden rattle wound urgently round the trenches,
Alerting men,
Waking them from their uneasy sleep,
The silent predator was upon them.
Dawn,
I remember that day as clear as the light,
The dawn that flooded,
That dawn it did,
The rattle rung through my ears,
That low sound that marked my passing,
Gas,
That drowned me it the flood,
That swept me away.
By Sarah Frederick
Posters of War
I see you rolled up in the back of the cupboard.
Your faded writing. Your feathered edges.
Lord Kitchener who once jumped out from the page, with his accusing finger.
Now is faded and almost gone
For a man so powerful and bold
I wonder if he knew I wonder if he was told
Of the troubles that lie ahead
Of the many dead
The suffering, the hurt and the pain
I wonder for a man so powerful and bold I wonder whether
He knew or whether he was told.
I am the past.
I hear young boys yelling, cheering.
“Keep right on to the end of the road” I hear them jeer.
On to the pub they go
I feel their happiness their pride and bravery.
I feel their joy
How different that strong and powerful feeling that is
To the feeling of war
To the blood on your hands
To the feeling of mud and rain
Ah yes a very different feeling that is to hopelessness
For I am the poster that told you to fight
I am the past – listen
By Niamh Allen
The War to End All Wars
It is hardly fair
That 90 years from the day
When you died
In suffering and pain
That I sit in my sheltered world
Almost oblivious to your sacrifice
So I ask you, tell me about yourself
What is your story
I want to understand
You ask what we died for
We died for our country, and your future
People say that war is a great adventure
What adventure?
What pleasure is there in dying in agony
What daring in being killed
In a rat infested hole in the ground
But there is honour
For although our bodies are long burnt away
Our dream stands firm
And so we shall never be forgotten
28th August 1915
The diary was lying open,
August 15th 1915.
The writing staring at me,
All angled the same.
It read “I will be home soon again”
I flicked through the pages,
Read the occasional printed line.
The aroma as I read through it grew stronger.
It read “I will be home soon again”
The soldier wrote pages and pages.
All about his experiences and tragedies.
I opened another page, September 11th 1915.
It spoke to me, “today my friend John died”
But still read “I will be home soon again”
His determination became clear,
He kept on going through the hard times.
Chin up. Looking forward. Gun in hand.
Yes, he will be home soon again.
By Emily Weir
War Poem
The war was one of attrition,
Both sides wasted lots of ammunition.
There were lots of attacks, on both sides,
Some were successful, some were denied.
And in the midst of all the shelling,
Was the wooden rattle, gas was dwelling.
All of the troops rushed for their masks,
Some did not make it, some were gassed.
I died for my country, I felt patriotic,
Some disagree, some say “idiotic”.
I felt independent, I felt very proud,
But I was too young, it shouldn’t be allowed.
I met lots of people, I killed many too,
But as it turned out, I didn’t have a clue.
The wind blew forth; I saw it was gas,
This was when I knew this could be my last.
I scrambled for my mask; it was on the floor,
And then I felt ill, and I remember no more.
By Mark McGregor
Dark Holes
He looked through the deep eyes with fear,
She touched the thin material and gasped,
He smelt the smoky air and paused,
She took an inhale of through and pictured.
Choking and coughing with fright,
Time seen so vaguely,
Horror of seeing everyone so scared,
Desperate to escape, but I will move on,
Lead through the dark deep holes of the mask.
By Megan Hammond
Was there a point?
My mother told me the war was pointless.
Soldiers died for nothing.
People were hurt, families were hurt, and feelings were hurt.
New weapons were created.
These saved lives and destroyed them both the same.
But sadly the First World War sent many men insane.
A brutal second war followed,
Where many men felt pain and quarrelled.
The soldiers trudged through the mud.
Holding their heads high and carrying others blood.
But in the end was the World War worth it?
My father told me the war was worth it.
Soldiers died as patriots of their country.
They felt happy that their friends were there and all around people cared.
They fought for freedom, for a happy, courageous life.
But many of their friends could not handle their knife.
Trudging through the mud was not that bad.
But missing their loved ones made them really sad.
Some people may think how could they end a life?
But to them it was just a way of being proud of their strife.
The war was worth it, it’s a good thought.
All they ever wanted was not to be caught.
They faced the war with an open mind.
But right now they never want to look behind.
By Hannah Ross