Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #535) The Working Party
Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. He couldn't see the man who walked in front; Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. Voices would grunt "Keep to your right -- make way!" When squeezing past some men from the front-line: White faces peered, puffing a point of red; Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore Because a sagging wire had caught his neck. A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread And flickered upward, showing nimble rats And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain; Then the slow silver moment died in dark. The wind came posting by with chilly gusts And buffeting at the corners, piping thin. And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots Would split and crack and sing along the night, And shells came calmly through the drizzling air To burst with hollow bang below the hill. Three hours ago, he stumbled up the trench; Now he will never walk that road again: He must be carried back, a jolting lump Beyond all needs of tenderness and care. He was a young man with a meagre wife And two small children in a Midland town, He showed their photographs to all his mates, And they considered him a decent chap Who did his work and hadn't much to say, And always laughed at other people's jokes Because he hadn't any of his own. That night when he was busy at his job Of piling bags along the parapet, He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. He thought of getting back by half-past twelve, And a tot of rum to send him warm to sleep In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes Of coke, and full of snoring weary men. He pushed another bag along the top, Craning his body outward; then a flare Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; And as he dropped his head the instant split His startled life with lead, and all went out.
(one of a series of war poems submitted by Anustup; see poem #481 and poem #503 for two previous instances; there are more to come - t.) What can one say about these poems? Any poor words that I may construe are but woefully inadequate beside the stark reality of these pictures of war and suffering in the trenches. The impulse to string together some of these was triggered by re-reading Rupert Brooke's "The Soldier" (Poem #280 on the Minstrels) - a soulful evocation of fighting and dying for one's country. The wistful melancholy of that poem is in sharp contrast to the dark underbelly of war portrayed by Sassoon and Owen. The first poem is by Sassoon, as grisly as any that Owen wrote - for instance, one is forcibly reminded of "Dulce et Decorum est" (Poem #132 on the Minstrels). A worthy poem for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier anywhere - far more appropriate than "For the sake of their tomorrows". But great poetry nevertheless - see for instance the craftsmanship of the last two lines, how that freeze-frame of the fatal bullet is captured against the backdrop of the flare's harsh light. Anustup.