Hello all, 

Today I will start off by sharing a comment by Glenn on a poem on war I wrote last week.

Another very strong piece. War poems are a form in themselves. Have you ever read Brian Turner’s poems in HERE, BULLET? I wrote a bunch of war poems about Viet Nam. Perhaps a future d/Verse prompt? 

And hell, that is exactly what we will do.

First, from Glenn’s recommendation here, you can read HERE, BULLET by Brian Turner, which to me balances on the edge of being lust for killing and disgust with the murder. The poet’s experience is recent but he writes from a long tradition,

I have no experience of war myself, but when I was young I had to spend twelve months in the army after which I had become a quartermaster sergeant. You can imagine how much fun I had reading catch 22 identifying with Milo Minderbinder and M&M enterprises.

War poetry has a long history going back to Homer and before. Actually the oldest piece of literature, the Gilgamesh epos, is at least partly about war. For many years the focus was telling the tale about heroism and (perhaps) victories. Poetry was about writing for the winner. For me, the charge of the light brigade represents something new, the heroic loss, which paves the way for later perspectives into the soldier’s view rather than the victorious general. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

I find it very interesting that this new perspective became persistent during WWI and WWII when a poem gave us the poppy as a symbol for soldiers and veterans of war. 

In Flanders Fields BY JOHN MCCRAE

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row, 
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie, 
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Of course, there are many other poems that gradually shifted war poems from heroism of the dead to the grit and gangrenes of the surviving soldiers. The trench wars of WWI inspired both poets and artists and merged with expressionism into poetry and art that really gets under your skin. 

Another perspective is that of the civilian with poets like Paul Celan who wrote about the holocaust and labor camps. 

Death Fugue by Paul Celan 

Black milk of morning we drink you evenings
we drink you at noon and mornings we drink you at night
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with the snakes he writes
he writes when it darkens to Deutschland your golden hair Margarete
he writes and steps in front of his house and the stars glisten and he whistles his dogs to come
he whistles his jews to appear let a grave be dug in the earth
he commands us play up for the dance

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you mornings and noontime we drink you evenings
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with the snakes he writes
he writes when it turns dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamit we dig a grave in the air there one lies at ease

He calls jab deeper into the earth you there and you other men sing and play
he grabs the gun in his belt he draws it his eyes are blue
jab deeper your spades you there and you other men continue to play for the dance

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noon we drink you evenings
we drink you and drink
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamit he plays with the snakes

He calls out play death more sweetly death is a master from Deutschland
he calls scrape those fiddles more darkly then as smoke you’ll rise in the air
then you’ll have a grave in the clouds there you’ll lie at ease

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Deutschland
we drink you evenings and mornings we drink and drink
death is a master from Deutschland his eye is blue
he strikes you with lead bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his dogs on us he gifts us a grave in the air
he plays with the snakes and dreams death is a master from Deutschland

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamit

Or in the poem by Carilda Olivar Labra who wrote about passionate love juxtaposed with the dark shadow of the Cuba crisis. 

Declaration of Love  BY  Carilda Olivar Labra
–written during the Cuban Missile Crisis, October, 1963

I ask if I’m wise
when I awaken
the danger between his thighs,
or if I’m wrong
when my kisses prepare only a trench
in his throat.
I know that war is probable;
especially today
because a red geranium has blossomed open.

Please, don’t point your weapons
at the sky:
the sparrows are terrorized,
and it’s springtime,
it’s raining, the meadows are ruminating.
Please,
you’ll melt the moon, only night light of the poor.

It’s not that I’m afraid,
or a coward,
I’d do everything for my homeland;
but don’t argue so much over your nuclear missiles,
because something horrible is happening:
and I haven’t had time enough to love. 

I think this is enough inspiration for you today. So now please pen yourself a new war poem. I think no matter our own experience I am sure that we fear what war can do, maybe it’s something you meet in the eyes of a refugee, in your nightmares or from reading a book, or if you prefer you can use one of the poems above as the inspiration for your own poem.

When you have written your poem, please link in mr Linky below, comment below and maybe add your own favorite war poem to the ones I have listed. The go out and read poems on the poetry trail.