Sunday WW1 Remembered..

This is such an expressive poem which perfectly symbolises the hope of Spring against the sadness of war



Spring in War Time

by

Sara Teasdale

I feel the spring far off, far off,

The faint, far scent of bud and leaf—

Oh, how can spring take heart to come

To a world in grief,

Deep grief?

The sun turns north, the days grow long,

Later the evening star grows bright—

How can the daylight linger on

For men to fight,

Still fight?

The grass is waking in the ground,

Soon it will rise and blow in waves—

How can it have the heart to sway

Over the graves,

New graves?

Under the boughs where lovers walked

The apple-blooms will shed their breath—

But what of all the lovers now

Parted by Death,

Grey Death?

Sara Teasdale 1884 - 1933

Bluebell Wood in early Spring

© Jaffareadstoo

Sunday WW1 Remembered...

As 1918 dawned and the Great War entered another phase I wonder what was going through the minds of those who were still fighting and of those who waited at home for their safe return.

Dawn on the Somme

by

 Robert Nichols

Last night rain fell over the scarred plateau 

And now from the dark horizon, dazzling, flies 

Arrow on fire-plumed arrow to the skies 

Shot from the bright arc of Apollo's bow; 

And from the wild and writhen waste below,

From flashing pools and mounds lit one by one,

O is it mist or are these companies 

Of morning heroes who arise, arise 

With thrusting arms, with limbs and hair aglow 

Toward the risen god, upon whose brow

Burns the gold laurel of all victories, 

Hero and hero's god, th' invincible Sun?

Robert Nichols (1893-1944) was a playwright and poet. Born into a wealthy Essex family, he was educated at Winchester College and Trinity College, Oxford. At the outbreak of World War I, he left Oxford to serve as a second lieutenant in the Royal Field artillery. However, after suffering from shell shock in 1916, he served only a short time in France before he was invalided out of the army. And although his active service was short, he is still recognised as one of the earliest soldier poets of World War I.

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Sunday WW1 Remembered ..

The winter of 1917 was particularly cold for those soldiers stationed on the Western Front

Arriving at their destination

Photographer
John Warwick Brooke

Infantry marching in the snow

Photographer
John Warwick Brooke

A halt on their way to the Trenches

Photographer
John Warwick Brooke

Bringing in a log for their camp fire 

Photographer
John Warwick Brooke

John Warwick Brooke was an official British WW1 photographer from 1916 - 1918

Photograph source : Nation Library Scotland

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Winter Warfare

By

 Edgell Rickwood

Colonel Cold strode up the Line

    (tabs of rime and spurs of ice);

stiffened all that met his glare:

    horses, men and lice.

Visited a forward post,

    left them burning, ear to foot;

fingers stuck to biting steel,

    toes to frozen boot.

Stalked on into No Man’s Land,

    turned the wire to fleecy wool,

iron stakes to sugar sticks

    snapping at a pull.

Those who watched with hoary eyes

    saw two figures gleaming there;

Hauptmann Kälte, colonel old,

    gaunt in the grey air.

Stiffly, tinkling spurs they moved,

    glassy-eyed, with glinting heel

stabbing those who lingered there

As this poem demonstrates there was nothing romantic about a snowy landscape in war 

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Sunday WW1 Remembered...

Lights Out 

by 

Philip Edward Thomas

1878 -1917

I have come to the borders of sleep, 

The unfathomable deep

Forest where all must lose

Their way, however straight, 

Or winding, soon or late;

They cannot choose. 

Many a road and track

That, since the dawn’s first crack,

Up to the forest brink, 

Deceived the travellers,

Suddenly now blurs,

And in they sink. 

Here love ends,

Despair, ambition ends;

All pleasure and all trouble,

Although most sweet or bitter, 

Here ends in sleep that is sweeter 

Than tasks most noble. 

There is not any book 

Or face of dearest look

That I would not turn from now 

To go into the unknown

I must enter, and leave, alone, 

I know not how. 

The tall forest towers; 

Its cloudy foliage lowers 

Ahead, shelf above shelf; 

Its silence I hear and obey 

That I may lose my way 

And myself.

Edward Thomas was a British essayist, novelist and poet and was born in London to Welsh parents.  He is considered to be a war poet although most of his poetry was written before the war when he was already an established writer. 

He enlisted into the Artists Rifles in 1915 and was killed during the Battle of Arras

 on the 9 April 1917.

Sunday WW1 Remembered...

It must be remembered that women also played a huge role in the war effort.

This interesting poem is by war poet writer and journalist  

Jessie Pope

1868-1941

War Girls

'There's the girl who clips your ticket for the train, 

And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor, 

There's the girl who does a milk-round in the rain, 

And the girl who calls for orders at your door. 

Strong, sensible, and fit, 

They're out to show their grit, 

And tackle jobs with energy and knack. 

No longer caged and penned up, 

They're going to keep their end up 

'Til the khaki soldier boys come marching back. 

There's the motor girl who drives a heavy van, 

There's the butcher girl who brings your joint of meat, 

There's the girl who calls 'All fares please!' like a man, 

And the girl who whistles taxi's up the street. 

Beneath each uniform 

Beats a heart that's soft and warm, 

Though of canny mother-wit they show no lack; 

But a solemn statement this is, 

They've no time for love and kisses 

Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

Jessie Pope was born in Leicester and educated at the North London Collegiate School. As a journalist she was a regular contributor to Punch magazine, The Daily Express and The Daily Mail. 

The Daily Mail, a newspaper which actively encouraged enlistment, handing out white feathers to those who did not take up the call of duty, regularly published Pope's war poetry.

Pope's poetry was in direct contrast to other war poets , particularly Sassoon and Owen who found her pro-war poetry distasteful. In 1917 , Wilfred Owen directed his poem, Dulce et Decorum Est at Pope and initially, dedicated the poem to "To Jessie Pope etc.", but then later changed this to "To a certain Poetess". 

It would seem that Pope's pro war poetry was in direct contrast to the more notable war poets anti -war stance.