I want to remember this war poet today. Will you read and remember him with me?

It feels pretty ordinary to me, as poems of that time go.

But the sentiments expressed by the poet were not ordinary to him, by any measure.

Thanks for sharing this.

I totally agree with you about the overwhelmingl religious influence parents impose on their children and how it can ultimately limit the potential and even intellect of their children, by keeping them in a bubble sheilded from the rest of the world. It is sad actually, because in my opinion it's just a euphamism for brainwashing your child's religious beliefs. A lot of the kid's I went to school with, I would encounter similar situations, and have long philosophical disscussions, in retrospect it's a little silly two 14 year old kids breaching the socially acceptable boundaries of school discussion and going straight into the wonders of existentialism. Anyway after witnissing situations very similar to the one you described, I did for a long time attempt to open the minds of what I though were rather narrow-minded kids, but it's not really my place and parents called parents, and that put a swift end to it. Although, times are changing and the girl you talk about cannot stay shielded from the real world forever, and eventually there will come a time where situations and questions she may ask herself wiill help her think freely, unshackled by the bonds of christianity. I think this because many of my friends I had fought with ealier in school about these issues, now have much more open minded views towards them. The saddest part though, as you very astutely pointed out in your header, the difficulties surrounding those tainted by the beliefs of their parents, I can't see ever truly being able to find religion knowing wholeheartedly it's based on their belief.

Anyone who went through the horror of trench warfare in WWI was a hero but to actually write about what it was exactly all about, that is to say the terrible death of another person - this may not be the greatest of poems of that genre but it says it for me. 'And why his head hung down.' Phew!

My mother's eldest brother was killed in the last six weeks of WWI and she never forgot him. When she was sixty she and my father travelled to France and amazingly found his grave. My wife's father served in the trenches for the full four years - he volunteered at 15 and lied about his age just to be with his brothers who had also volunteered.

I am not taking anything away from the bravery of our soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq although I have never supported those wars but our soldiers are professionals not conscripts or volunteers. In my book there is a difference. I apologise for any offence this last paragraph may cause.

None who perished should ever be forgotten. It's just too sad that only the few who left a legacy like this are immortalized in public memory.

The author's tender feelings for his friend are clearly exhibited here. His carefully crafted words are some of the most touching I have read.

I had not seen this poem before, but now I rank it alongside another of my favorites:

High Flight

by John Gillespie Mageee, Jr.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/High_Flight

(scroll down to see the poem)

I don't know of many "professional" poets, I don't tend to believe that publicity=poetry but this is an excellent and almost prophetic poem. . . too bad he died so young, only 29 years (if my dubious maths is correct :P)

He deserves remembrance yes, but so does everyone else. I'll remember him, and anyone else whom I have lost, directly or indirectly.

By indirectly I mean someone like an idol dying (Peter Steele from Type O Negative who died this year, and "The Rev" from Avenged Sevenfold")

Okay. . .i'm going off on a tangent sorry. The poem is beautiful.

Hi Cassie,

Here's a poem I posted as answer to one of Fredric's questions:

Against the wind, should wind blow me away

Into this trench, this trench of stinking death,

shall steadfastness and purposed will allay

my fears to let me find my second breath.

This vestment torn, fragmented by this storm

Of human greed, incited keep my vow

To shield my way of life, and a new form

therefore adopt, remove this slug and not allow

the cruelty inside my hide and bear

this heavy armament. And bring my beast,

my groaning beast, to head without a pray’r

to his domain where now he feasts.

I shall face grief for grief obstructs my path

For duty leaves all else behind including wrath.

Mark Anderson

My grandad died when I was young. He served during WWI as a Marine in France. My grandmother said he never spoke of the war. He did drink a lot, whether related or not, I don't know. I doubt Hell would scare many who served in wars like WWI and II. A good poem.

It is nicely done...with simplicity!

But, if it is not considered somehow somewhat blasphemous to the dead poet, then I'll say that you would have done a far better job!!!

For, you have mastered your craft of 'picturing' the poems in such a way that you keep the suspense for the last :).

This here, revealed it right in the beginning...hence the last line lost the shock value!!! We knew right from the start what we were looking for...and so did he!!!

To be honest I have never been interested in war poetry , but I'm thinking now I might have a go at a war poem I like this Cassie , Thank you .

There are many WWI poets who are not remembered because they left only a few important poems, or because their work lacks the coherence of a Sassoon or an Owen.

I had not previously read this poem from Lyons, but one of my favourite poets of the period is W W Gibson. Gibson did not see active service in WWI, but wrote from the point of view of the soldiers who deal with the immediate aftermath of war:- an aspect often skipped in school anthologies.

This is typical of his work:

Mark Anderson

On the low table by the bed

Where it was set aside last night,

Beyond the bandaged lifeless head

It glitters in the morning light -

And as the hours of morning pass

I cannot sleep, I cannot think,

But only gaze upon the glass

Of water that he couldn't drink.