Got war poetry? Here's one, how about some more?
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charlylynx
- Posts: 17
- Joined: 29 Mar 2013, 17:15
- Bookshelf Size: 0
Got war poetry? Here's one, how about some more?
The cross
The father comes and offers me bread,
looks in my eyes, sees that I’m dead.
through Christ my soul is cleaned and saved,
takes my sins, prepares my grave.
gives me wine, says it’s blood,
came from God, you know it’s good.
to my mouth the sponge is pressed,
turns to bile, the vinegared kiss.
spikes in my hands, spear in my side,
on a cross is where I ride.
in the sky way up above,
flying cowboys warring for love.
down below the penitents flee,
hiding in graves, hiding from me.
we plummet down, guns ablaze,
a town destroyed, a village razed.
some to heaven, some to hell,
the cross passes over ringing it’s bell.
a hundred die, a hundred live,
some we take, some we give.
we circle round and drop the hosts,
they come to all, they come to most.
the villagers pull the monstrance out,
and shoot a candle with a shout.
body of Christ, the father says,
in my mouth, and in my chest.
I lay back and feel the heat,
the cross is burning at my feet.
the father comes to the flaming wreck,
dressed in black and corporeal red.
a chalice of steel cocked in his hand,
drink of this for your sins to the land.
I look deep into the barrel of darkness,
filled with souls in naked starkness.
forgive me father for I have sinned,
yes my son, with absolution you win.
then Christ he comes to view the act,
takes my sins, removes the black.
grabs my soul and washes it clean,
removes the dirt, removes the mean.
takes me from the war torn ground,
buries my body deep and down.
lifts my soul to the sky above,
forgives my sins, fills me with love.
Charles Lynch
The father comes and offers me bread,
looks in my eyes, sees that I’m dead.
through Christ my soul is cleaned and saved,
takes my sins, prepares my grave.
gives me wine, says it’s blood,
came from God, you know it’s good.
to my mouth the sponge is pressed,
turns to bile, the vinegared kiss.
spikes in my hands, spear in my side,
on a cross is where I ride.
in the sky way up above,
flying cowboys warring for love.
down below the penitents flee,
hiding in graves, hiding from me.
we plummet down, guns ablaze,
a town destroyed, a village razed.
some to heaven, some to hell,
the cross passes over ringing it’s bell.
a hundred die, a hundred live,
some we take, some we give.
we circle round and drop the hosts,
they come to all, they come to most.
the villagers pull the monstrance out,
and shoot a candle with a shout.
body of Christ, the father says,
in my mouth, and in my chest.
I lay back and feel the heat,
the cross is burning at my feet.
the father comes to the flaming wreck,
dressed in black and corporeal red.
a chalice of steel cocked in his hand,
drink of this for your sins to the land.
I look deep into the barrel of darkness,
filled with souls in naked starkness.
forgive me father for I have sinned,
yes my son, with absolution you win.
then Christ he comes to view the act,
takes my sins, removes the black.
grabs my soul and washes it clean,
removes the dirt, removes the mean.
takes me from the war torn ground,
buries my body deep and down.
lifts my soul to the sky above,
forgives my sins, fills me with love.
Charles Lynch
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castielfalling
- Posts: 6
- Joined: 31 May 2013, 05:56
- Bookshelf Size: 0
This is one of my favourite war poems!!
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-- 31 May 2013, 07:19 --
This is one of my favourite war poems!!
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-- 31 May 2013, 07:20 --
It's by Wilfred Owen!
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-- 31 May 2013, 07:19 --
This is one of my favourite war poems!!
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
-- 31 May 2013, 07:20 --
It's by Wilfred Owen!
