The Shadow of the Poppy

by Emily Edwards

in the letter put into his hand,

  dismisses each sound of “A coward’s way out?”

  in his rush to be gone from this land.

  The Defector

  Guns sounded in the distance, but they were not the guns of war

  they sounded too familiar...

  When the rattling ceased, and the thundering lay dormant

  all was still...

  A boy, a friend, a comrade, had been extinguished in circumstances strange -

  they say his feet were fleeting,

  we say he was heading home.

  I cry...

  Not all can ease the nerves, or the jangling of the brain,

  with the dead piled up like litter, and the stench of decaying bones.

  Still, there will be no plaque of honour – No medal his ’Mother’ will possess,

  just the memory of a morning when a soul was put to rest.

  I cry...

  Bare eighteen years if that; gossip for a Winter’s night -

  a child I hear you call out

  a soldier we call back.

  I cry...

  This boy could live in all of us, the torture and the pain,

  the weight of a world in conflict

  nothing garnished, nothing gained...

  Ӂ

  Broken

  My mind is like a text, dug from the antiquity of time -

  frail, full, overflowing -

  ready to explode without reason or rhyme...

  I crave for peace; a silence from those thundering guns-

  stealing the creativity of my brain,

  and the gentleness of my heart.

  I kill without thinking- shatter without caring, fill my lungs-

  with the rotting flesh of life-

  each particle of burnt skin

  carving itself upon my memory.

  Face, or no face; mauled by the barking of iron dogs -

  and long sharp teeth of steel

  nauseating power – gunpowder and blood -

  pungent odour of death.

  I am living a nightmare- hideous visions scrape sanity -

  away forever.

  Ghouls appear from nowhere;

  visions of a darker realm dance before my eyes.

  I tread through this valley of death -

  man after man; blood their only bandage;

  guts torn asunder – limbs lost in this arena of war.

  I pray, implore the noise to stop -

  the rattling gun, the shouting mouth, the scream long gone -

  as the pages of my mental book crumples,

  shreds into the dark labyrinth of my conscious.

  I write this allegory – paint my field of war -

  push aside my ravaged soul,

  rise with the determination of the depraved -

  join the macabre game once more.

  L’ enfant

  I hear there’s a new babe suckling at the breast I held dear

  a new hand grasping fingers; fills once more the soul with cheer.

  I hear the stock of manhood sweet upon your lap, guides those

  soft and gentle rosy lips to his own perfected nape.

  I hear my siblings hide their grief; bury it from your sight,

  yearning raw has been replaced with fathomless sleepless nights

  Lost between the wretch of birth, and the stomp of pre-meditated death

  the cry of deep seated sorrow lost within your aching breast.

  Displaced in conflict I feel the pain; see the panic in your eyes

  hear the sorrowful call to a God unknown; think of you alone.

  I long to feel the tender hand, placed once more upon my brow

  relieve the putrid suffering your son is feeling now.

  If I had got Achilles wings, to speed the day in flight

  to bring my emancipated body to the healer of its plight.

  I would move the child-like hands from your tender loving care,

  and lay within that ravaged space til war is but no more.

  Festive Memories

  We raise a cup to those back home this cold festive night

  We think about the log fires burning extra bright -

  The hog roast is turning, the candles glimmer

  low, the unused chair stands tall this

  Winter – War’s end? We do not

  know.

  Ӝ

  The Truce

  A truce has been granted – war has seized for a day

  The birth of a baby has hidden hate away.

  We play football on a death bed, under a snow ridden sky

  Joke, and shake hands with the enemy;

  Men, just as I!

  We read letters from home – sing carols now and then,

  Make wishes round a bonfire;

  Celebrate whisky from the glen.

  One day out of many, to halt and think awhile -

  Childlike wishes within us,

  Hide memories that are vile.

  Snow has started falling on this cold, cheerless land,

  The chords of ‘Silent Night’ in German

  From the mouths of men sound -

  All deluding ourselves about the morrow;

  Feign this land is rid

  Of men who hark the order

  to uphold the Devil’s bid.

  Where Are You?

  Where are you my beloved,

  waiting the poison arrow head,

  your arms as empty as a cave

  that longs for the dead.

  A sad, downcast figure;

  a lonely heart to beat-

  Set forever to the future...

  when pain will cease its grip.

  I long to sit beside you,

  take the trembling fingers cold-

  Add the warmth of my breath -

  on tales yet untold.

  You are my morning and my evening,

  the silent prayer of each new day-

  the sun up in the heavens,

  and the gentle rain at play.

  Whatever place I rest in;

  be it far from that arrow point-

  the invisible chain that binds us

  keeps us bound to each sacred joint.

  The Devil Has Risen

  Dear ‘Father’...

  darkness lifts, and the ‘eerie’ silence of dawn surrounds me.

  I crane my neck for a bird, any bird on this summer morn.

  I hear nothing.

  My mind finds you -

  for it seems to be forever – my stay in this worn torn land,

  where man is ripped apart by the sound of a trumpet and

  the rumbling metal monster.

  I ponder -

  as the memory of the night flown beckons my thoughts.

  to the gurgle of first blood, and this red earth

  opened its arms for the fallen.

  Repulsive prison...

  where poppies sway, and bodies are crunched into the ground -

  food for the predators that crawl among the dead; their hands still

  clutching the sin of war in cold, set fingers.

  Orders filter through -

  messages from the messenger -from the man who pulls the strings,

  that chilling order to ‘Attack’ – counting down the minutes-

  when boys are changed into men.

  If only I could come home...

  knowing the enemy could thwart our plan and the deathly reaper

  holds out his hand.

  What will I become?

  Hark -

  others are moving, a lark is singing, another day has risen.

  I will challenge the Ace of fate, as once more we climb that mound,

  and these creatures into purgatory run riot.

  From our haven of rest we fly – into the black spider’s web -

  Guard My Soul

  How much longer can it be – this worn and weary body lay

  In swirling muck, and stinking field

  Of huma
n bones and foul scent hay.

  The light fades on this pantomime – the darkness heralds night

  The hand before my face I see

  Is shaking hard with fright.

  If only I could still my mind – bring peace upon my soul

  Digest the sights, and bid them leave

  The heart they have took hold.

  I look around in cautious mood – from the front row of the stalls

  Where the last chords of the orchestra

  Play their long drawn out reeds.

  Young men strewn in broken mass – litter the dark charred earth

  Acting out this charade -

  Telling the story for all their worth.

  Tears stream down my ice bound cheeks – freeze upon my lips

  Salt with all its healing power -

  Cripples my new-found squeaks

  I wish to ask my companions – at the end of this day’s show

  How the battle fared them,

  Did they creep back through the snow?

  No sound was forthcoming – not a whisper, or a grunt

  As alone I sit in terror -

  A survivor of this ‘bloody’ stunt.

  My friend, if you can hear me – alone, afraid and worn

  Guard my soul to your bosom,

  Though it be shattered and torn.

  The Angel of Mons

  Staggering the field of forgotten dreams-

  Over limbs and bodies torn apart

  I hear a voice; a gentle touch-

  a hand extended in the bloody mess.

  The face is kind, the uniform creased

  with the dirt and grease of a land depressed.

  I stumble onto the waiting breast,

  feel the strength of the arms that hold-

  the gratitude on my bated breath

  is stemmed by the eyes that love beholds.

  He carries me to safety- guns pounding

  all around- two young men fleeing their fate,

  caught in a moment- an evil debate.

  Overcome by fatigue and confusion

  I lean heavily on his heart,

  mouth ’Thank God we have been so lucky

  on this stage that is blown apart’.

  We sink to the ground in unison-

  the medics do not delay-

  I turn to grip the hand that saved,

  but he had gone away.

  “Soldier, you’re a miracle”

  the commander’s voice I heard -

  "You walked the field of death, each

  lonely step undisturbed".

  Gasping for the breath bequeathed

  to relay my friend’s fair deed-

  the arm that aided sorrow in

  my hour of need.

  They smiled in understanding-

  assured me I was alone,

  the figure I resurrected -

  a thought my mind had cloned.

  I sank into that black pit-

  his eyes once more to see,

  was he the blessed ‘Angel of Mons’

  if so, he set me free.

  Lamentation

  Among the spineless thud of guns

  the whistles of command,

  the earth-shattering clatter of heavy feet

  a voice so small, one could hardly hear

  as it pleaded and groaned in its nest of fear.

  "Mother’, where are you?

  I’m your boy lying here – I see your face,

  I crave your arms to console this dying child

  locked in a mud splattered hole"

  My eyes, though weary from lack of sleep

  sought the tiny childlike mutter,

  as bending down in the riverine of dirt

  I grasped a hand with fingers taut-

  the warmth inside- almost naught.

  Afraid I would be dragged away, I lay

  down in that puddle deep,

  held the stiffening lifeless frame

  against my breast; upon my heart,

  as the thundering noise tore the world apart.

  “I’m here dear son” I muttered

  "Lay in the whisper of my tone,

  no more fretting or fighting, as home once more

  we both shall roam"

  The hand squeezed tight, his head dropped backwards -

  a smile of sweet contentment -

  the cries and screams of rampaging death,

  surrounded us – covered us,

  as I noted his failing breath.

  Teardrops wet my burning cheeks;

  killing ceased its call -

  the limp cold frame within my arms, had passed this life -

  sparing me the devil’s haul.

  Standing deep in enemy soil; the world around me wavers -

  the grey beneath my boots -

  Oh Lord -

  my nemesis, and my saviour.

  The Devil’s Breath

  They call it ‘The Devil’s Breath’ -

  ‘Mustard gas’...

  the so-called weapon of the ‘brave’-

  casting its evil shadow from an unknown

  enemy hand.

  A powder to mangle the feature’s,

  eating the skin below -

  burning the face of recognition,

  ravaging the flesh I know.

  Breath comes in spurts, tears from sore eyes -

  a fire out of control – wasted lives.

  The mind loses track-

  day or night – who knows.

  It is lightening striking at rapid speed

  cutting into the skin-

  the Devil’s weapon, made by man

  sinister, evil, the laugh of sin.

  Breath comes in spurts, tears from sore eyes -

  a fire out of control – wasted lives.

  Unable to gasp, lungs set to burst-

  the cry of the child

  from a ‘man’s’ throat is heard -

  "Mam, I beseech you

  heal if you can,

  the balm of your knowledge,

  your hand a sweet fan.

  If you cannot -

  then,

  death must be sharp,

  death must be swift -

  an act that is

  meaningful and quick-

  at the end of a life that is fading"

  The sun grows cold –

  Last Rites

  To my Mother

  If I die in this land

  what will you remember of me-

  the light that shone in my childlike eyes

  as to your face I looked with glee.

  Will you

  harbour precious memories of the babe

  you held close; whose cheeks so bonny, and nose

  so small, you tweaked continuously.

  or-

  Remember

  the smile that lingered – round my childish trembling lips

  as the poems and prose of yesteryear

  were uttered childishly quick.

  Stumbling over those rounded vowels

  as you watched in misery,

  not daring to move, not daring to sigh...

  yet-

  Only The Best

  you declared, for your loving child.

  Be it hard, or an uphill struggle-

  there will come a day, in this young lad’s life

  when the power of diction sets the world to right.

  and-

  Do Not forget

  those course years, when age and anger collided-

  the wisdom of a mother

  as strange as a family divided.

  then-

  Keep Within Your Heart

  my letters from this place-

  each one a proclamation of love- for ’parents of such grace.

  so please-

  If I Die In This Land,

  far away from you and home,

  with the bugle hailing the chord to attack,

  and the officer’s voice in my ear,

&nb
sp; let

  that straggling lonely tear,

  fall onto that comforting breast

  that houses a solemn chamber

  putting grief and pride to rest.

  The Bayonet

  From the hand that wielded the sword,

  to the organ that received its blade -

  the blood pumping freely, as a waterfall -

  covering my jacket with a hot wet slime,

  Crimson -

  I fall, grasp at the hole within me

  splurting your name.

  I feel the pain,

  dark, creeping, tentacles of horror

  laying low within my stomach – waiting to

  devour the bubbling mass of gut.

  Teeth like iron squeeze my lungs,

  remove the breath fighting to be heard -

  snaking ever nearer to my heart.

  There is no medicine strong enough,

  to remove its vile threat -

  I gag and gasp for air,

  clutch the charred earth beneath my fingers,

  suppress the scream of a man displaced

  in this land of hate.

  I try to release my silent protest,

  let my mind be carried to my thoughts of desertion -

  those moments of sad fear

  when the soul craves for release -

  thrashes against the evil of this hell;

  a God forsaken wilderness

  where desperation and retribution mould -

  melt into waves of black terror, and

  time and space elude me.

  I subconsciously shout -

  ’Fetch the surgeon’s knife,

  scrape from my ears the dregs of sound and horror-

  fill the kidney dish with my entrails;

  cast my brain onto the land.

  I cannot stand one moment more of this creeping

  creature inside me-

  loosened in the oddest hours of night or morn-

  sensing my depravity; heralding my dawn’

  I feel naught,

  for desolation cannot feel,

  in a mind that’s lost its ‘wheel’.

  Gone – But Not Forgotten

  The splurging sound falls from my lips – as blood it’s freedom sought

  I trod these battlefields awhile; for Monarch and country fought.

  The cries of men terrorized the dawn of each new day

  And, feet repeatedly trampled the bold into the clay.

  This morn I sensed the reaper; his hand upon his scythe -

  the blade – now a bullet – seeks my head as a knife.

  The belching from the trenches tramps my heart into the ground,