Drops of hot water beads run down my face
Scorching the skin, stinging my vanity,
Washing any scent of your lingering humanity
Away-
I freeze from the pain,
Recoil from the serpent touch-
Flee inside myself,
Join the vacuum of longing-
You are gone-
Spent on the wind that re-tells
Your leaving;
Your non-existent farewell.
I scream-
Exhaling the demon sound of loss,
Filling my lungs with-
Nothing...
Pain of Loss
However many paintings, books or plays they write
No matter how they question, argue the fact to put things right.
They cannot sense the deprivation or-
smell the bloody stench-
as limbs are torn asunder-
and brains are blown to hell.
They cannot feel a mother’s anguish, as that child of her heart
Squirms in dirt and bloodshed, pulling her life apart.
The complete and utter carnage-
that signals the weight of war-
crumbling into the earth-
where the last breath is drawn.
The brush can paint a memory, the pen a voice to tell
Each can portray that part of history, where only pain can dwell.
Yet not one canvas, or the ink to relay my pain,
closes the gaping wound that festers-
the curdling bile that flows-
from a heart too numb to feel -
and a wound that will never heal.
Memory
I have no elegy to pen -
No swan song to sing,
The words fall empty on the page -
The throat it’s chords don’t ring.
In isolation my heart unfolds -
A blatant pain for all,
The throttling of the reapers scythe -
Whose blade alone did fall.
The child from my womb -
No longer pants for breath,
The cold dark tomb encompasses -
My heart broke now in death.
The voice I long to hear -
Speaks not for me,
The eyes I wish to meet -
Look on a world I cannot see.
These legs of mine go forward -
This mind to others flow,
My arms are held out daily -
As hands touch the young that grow.
Yet, deep within that chamber -
Where love for you abides,
Your face forever abiding -
Calls your memory to my side.
Ode to the Fallen
I do not know you – yet I do,
as years unfurl a thread of wool-
the sights you saw,
the pain you felt
rest at my door as if you came to call.
I cannot see you – yet I can,
the dirt...the smell on you remains-
feet all chapped,
legs so black,
a broken spirit thrown into my lap.
Unable to touch that boyish hair,
damp the curls unfurl-
blood exchanged for rain or snow
washed away without a care.
I need to touch you- feel you breathe,
the babe in arms... the man grown tall-
the lips that cradled a mother’s breast
splurging as you fall.
I long to hear you – yet I do,
amid the din of victory’s cue
desolation rings out loud-
A wasted life,
a cruel end to strife-
cutting through my peace-time night-
swiftly, jagged – sharp as a knife.
Cold, calculated fingers steal upon my heart
freezing up my memories – tearing them apart,
promises of yesteryear,
‘never, never again’
ring in the ears of those who crave
the fallen son within the grave.
Desolation
Night is the loneliest...
the slow ticking of a clock
when the demons of the dark haunt the living.
Letters, scattered
as the ashes of you my child lie by my side -
memories of waste,
pain of freedom.
The air quickens...
warms my stagnant thoughts,
to the breeze of a year that is turning
filtering in the
dawn of a new era.
War is over...
the stream of men and youth are home,
closing the book of horror and loss.
I write to you still...
ease the haunting,
burn the letters as I wash and cook,
prepare a meal...
with one place empty.
Lost
Where are you, child of mine
Lost in a land unknown
The beating of your heart
Connects with mine alone.
I treasured every letter
Fold them to my breast
Sitting alone in the twilight
I finger the tear stained crest.
Has it really been a year now-
Since the news reached my ears
And, the long low scream of parting
Rent my body into tears.
I wait for your footfall,
The hand upon the gate,
The latch springing on the main door
As it opens to your gait.
It is but the wind of Winter
or, the breeze on a Summer’s noon,
Heralding your presence... and the
heart you took from home.
A Mother’s Lament
My Child,
I see you dying with pain etched on your face,
The cruel marks of your enemy your flesh has embraced.
I cry low within me; my soul wretched, torn and sore,
If only I could hold you, stroke the brow love bore.
My Child,
Your body is bleeding where the heat of anger spills,
Hands that knew compassion, lay dejected, cold and still.
The heart that leapt at birth, turns now in anguish deep,
As tears of silent sorrow fall, and control I strive to keep.
My Child,
You are dead now, as part of me dies too,
I try to keep composure, let my understanding through.
The tangled bruised body, hides a lifetime long ago,
When, smiles, hugs and whispers your battered frame knew.
My Child,
I imagine you are buried under the earth where flowers bloom,
As my hand reaches out for the babe cosseted within the womb.
My mind searches for a reason with every small mark made,
I beg for an answer; as your flesh turns with the spade.
My Child,
The tears are flowing, forging down my face-
Your broken shrouded body, feels no pain, time or space.
The bonds of life are broken, the spirit now is free,
You are in my heart forever; death cannot separate
You and Me.
Who Am I?
I am the wind rushing through the trees
The sun dancing over the lake -
I am the snow fluttering to earth,
The patter of rain that keeps you awake.
I am the dream that be-friends you at night,
The smile that causes your senses to stir -
I am the love that invades your heart,
The presence you feel in the air.
I am your night, I am your day
The child that will always be there -
The hand that clasps yours when you cry -
I am the kiss – of never saying goodbye.
Repose
Cross by cross they placed us…
Pale as the driven snow,
A tribute to men as I…
Fallen in battle long ago.
Goodnight My Child
Stop the World
Stop the world…
Let silence descend,
Where the guns ran riot,
And the grasses swayed.
Let thought ascend
To those young men
Trampled into the ground.
Pits of mud,
Fences of wire,
Black river beds,
Splattered blood.
Tears of pain
From men of courage,
Seeking a way to stop
The carnage, and noise,
Screams of distress
In a land far from home.
Stop the world…
Halt the killing
Of man’s fascination
With war,
Where hearts of a nation
Wait with bated breath,
A whole generation
Gone,
And, their child
Does not write anymore.
Brave youth who went to face the war,
Unsheathe the swords of lightening, hold the flag aloft,
sing the praises of the thousands; now in battle lost.
Author’s Note
The Somme Battlefield
Guillemont
This battle that began on September 3rd, 1916 was part of a manoeuvre to capture the German post situated there. Unbeknown to the advancing army the German troops were more militarised, and their plan of action – especially at the beginning – was devastating to the men of the 59th and 47th Brigade, with the 61st Brigade in divisional reserve.
The 6th Oxford and Buckinghamshire, which is the regiment of the soldier I have penned this book for, were attached to the 59th Brigade. The battle began at noon, and contributed to the ravaging death rate that this early twentieth century war will be recognised for.
Throughout the 1914 – 1918 war a whole generation of young men were killed; various nationalities were involved, and thousands of mortalities, and casualties were counted on both sides of the conflict.
From the trenches, hacked from the land, and stretching for miles across an area known as the ‘Western Front’ to the barren, blown up earth of the land in-between the conflicting armies, labelled ‘No Man’s Land’, edged with the steel teeth of barbed wire, bodies of men lay to be trampled or eaten by the rats that invaded the mud and dirt. Many sought for burial at the end of a battle were never found; swallowed up in the earth beneath the advancing army’s feet, or blown apart by the continual shelling of the land. In literary terms it was known as ‘Hell’; a turn of phrase, or idiom often uttered by the ordinary soldier.
According to my research, and military historians please forgive me if I have not quite the correct figures, there were around 163 battles, many like Ypres re-ignited three times. The number of dead, including those classed as civilians, fell within the ‘plus millions’, and the injured into thousands.
Many that came home, as aforementioned in my prelude, never spoke about the horrors.
I sincerely hope that these poems will allow a different side of war to be shown, and as the psychological thread in our mind separates good and evil, the thin line between death and survival is also represented.
Emily Edwards
The Shadow of the Poppy Page 4
