# Military Poetry



## Marauder06 (Aug 4, 2019)

I thought we had a thread on this already, but if we do I couldn't find it.

This is the place for you to post military-related poetry, yours / someone else's, contemporary / historical, it doesn't matter. The only requirement is that it has to have a military nexus.

*This poem, and its accompanying backstory*, was written by a ShadowSpear member, celebrates a different ShadowSpear member's recovery from being severely WIA, and gives a shout-out to the site.  That said, it's kind of dark...

Excerpt:



> I thought about the way America thinks its veterans are disposable, about how the wars aren’t “real” to most Americans in any meaningful sense, and how despite the “never forgotten” bumper stickers, most dead Soldiers are that: forgotten. Disposable. Put in a box.  Flushed away after their utility is at an end.
> 
> I thought about all of that, and then I wrote this poem.



_____




> _From my mother’s embrace I rose to the call of the State,
> And I hunkered in its steel until my dry skin melted.
> Six hundred meters from base, I shuffled off this mortal coil;
> I fell asleep to the sound of exploding copper.  No more nightmares_.
> ...


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## digrar (Aug 5, 2019)

"If you are able, save for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go.
     Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own.
     And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane, take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.
Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam
Major O'Donnell was listed as missing in action in 1970 while in Cambodia. His remains were returned to the United States in 2001.


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## digrar (Aug 5, 2019)

This one from Banjo Patterson, probably Australia's most well known poet, indicates how young a nation we were in WW1, and why ANZAC day (Gallipoli being a massive cock up) and the digger legend has maintained importance for over 100 years now. 

_Australia takes her pen in hand,
To write a line to you,_ _To let you fellows understand,
How proud we are of you.

From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobsons Bay,
Each native-born Australian son,
Stands straighter up today.

The man who used to "hump his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs,
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.

The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.

The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more
We're all Australians now!

Our six-starred flag that used to fly,
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,

Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!

The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.

The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill,_ _May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.

With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.

Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!

So now we'll toast the Third Brigade,
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.

Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.

And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle bough,
To symbolise our unity,_ _We're all Australians now.

(AB "Banjo" Paterson)_


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## x SF med (Aug 6, 2019)

Rudyard Kipling wrote this in 1890...  he was a soldier, in India and the Kush.  Every military person should own a copy of *Barrack-Room Ballads* (ca. 1892) 

*Tommy*

I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o'beer, 
The publican 'e up an' sez, ``We serve no red-coats here.''
 The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
 I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, go away''; 
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,  
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,  
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be, 
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; 
They sent me to the gallery or round the music 'alls, 
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

  For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, wait outside''; 
 But it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide,  
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,  
O it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep 
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; 
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit 
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy how's yer soul?'' 
But it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll,  
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,  
O it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, 
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; 
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints: 
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

 While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an ``Tommy, fall be'ind,'' 
But it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind, 
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,  
O it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an'schools, an' fires an' all: 
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. 
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face 
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Chuck him out, the brute!''  
But it's ``Saviour of 'is country,'' when the guns begin to shoot;  
Yes it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; 
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees!

*Rudyard Kipling*


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## Box (Aug 6, 2019)

I am a warrior poet - some would even call me the Matsuo Bashō of my generation...

spent shells raining down
trigger finger to and fro
huge freedom boner

political discourse 
the president tweets again
i pissed in my pants 

stillness in the air
a roaring dragon overhead
napalm sticks to kids


Haiku bitches


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## DasBoot (Aug 6, 2019)

“Death of Ball Turret Gunner”- it’s always stuck with me, since high school. Reminds you of the ignominious end that could await you in this job- 

“From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.”


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## Diamondback 2/2 (Aug 6, 2019)

Never been much for poetry but I am enjoying the thread.


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## Marauder06 (Aug 6, 2019)

DasBoot said:


> “Death of Ball Turret Gunner”- it’s always stuck with me, since high school. Reminds you of the ignominious end that could await you in this job-
> 
> “From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
> And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
> ...



Yep.

_"From my mother’s embrace I rose to the call of the State,
And I hunkered in its steel until my dry skin melted.
Six hundred meters from base, I shuffled off this mortal coil;
I fell asleep to the sound of exploding copper.  No more nightmares_.
_At “end of mission,” they flushed me out of the turret with a hose."_


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## DA SWO (Aug 6, 2019)

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Machine gun goes pew, pew, pew
Phuck yew.


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## DZ (Aug 7, 2019)

"Boots" by Rudyard Kipling
If you know, you know.

INFANTRY COLUMNS

We're foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin' over Africa —
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin' over Africa —
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
                There's no discharge in the war!

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an'-twenty mile to-day —
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before —
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
                There's no discharge in the war!

Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you.
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' em,
                An' there's no discharge in the war!

Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different —
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
                There's no discharge in the war!

Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers.
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again) —
                There's no discharge in the war!

We—can—stick—out—'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of 'em —
Boot—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
                An' there's no discharge in the war!

'Taint—so—bad—by—day because o' company,
But night—brings—long—strings—o' forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again.
                There's no discharge in the war!

I—'ave—marched—six—weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It—is—not—fire—devils, dark, or anything,
But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
                An' there's no discharge in the war!


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## Board and Seize (Aug 7, 2019)

DeadZeppelin said:


> Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!
> There's no discharge in the war!



I mean, I kindof want to "hate" that post, but it's what I came here to see.  Talk about sticking with you!


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## Gunz (Aug 7, 2019)

OVER THE PARAPET by Robert W. Service

All day long when the shells sail over
I stand at the sandbags and take my chance;
But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover,
And over the parapet gleams Romance.
Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing
Dreary old records of money and mart,
Me with my head chuckful of fighting
And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart.

But little I thought that my time was coming,
Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon;
And here I am with the bullets humming
As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon.
Out alone, for adventure thirsting,
Out in mysterious No Man's Land;
Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting,
Flares on the horrors on every hand.

There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle;
And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red;
There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle,
And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead.
But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness,
That spill in a pool of pearly flame,
Pretty as gems in their silver brightness,
And etching a man for a bullet's aim.

Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger,
Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark,
In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger,
When the moon is decently hiding. Hark!
What was that? Was it just the shiver
Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand?
The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver
Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land?

It's only at night when the ghosts awaken,
And gibber and whisper horrible things;
For to every foot of this God-forsaken
Zone of jeopard some horror clings.
Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly,
That flattish mound in the noisome grass;
You three big rats running free of its belly,
Out of my way and let me pass!

But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder;
The trench lights gleam and the rockets play.
That flood of magnificent orange yonder
Is a battery blazing miles away.
With a rush and a singing a great shell passes;
The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl,
And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses,
And look and listen and love it all.

God! What a life! But I must make haste now,
Before the shadow of night be spent.
It's little the time there is to waste now,
If I'd do the job for which I was sent.
My bombs are right and my clippers ready,
And I wriggle out to the chosen place,
When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady!
Who am I staring slap in the face?

There in the dark I can hear him breathing,
A foot away, and as still as death;
And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething,
And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath.
Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely,
For it's death, swift death to utter a cry.
"English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely.
"Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I.

So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle
There in the gutter of No Man's Land;
And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle,
And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand.
And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter:
"Now," I say, "I can kill you fine;
But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter!
Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein."

Nine! Well, I cannot kill such a father,
So I tie his hands and I leave him there.
Do I finish my little job? Well, rather;
And I get home safe with some light to spare.
Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty,
Doing the same old song and dance;
But oh! with the night -- joy, glory, beauty:
Over the parapet -- Life, Romance!


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## x SF med (Aug 7, 2019)

Not truly poetry, but poetic when you think about it....

General Colin Powell’s Rules:

1. It ain’t as bad as you think. It will look better in the morning.
2. Get mad, then get over it.
3. Avoid having your ego so close to your position that when your position falls, your ego goes with it.
4. It can be done!
5. Be careful what you choose. You may get it.
6. Don’t let adverse facts stand in the way of a good decision.
7. You can’t make someone else’s choices. You shouldn’t let someone else make yours.
8. Check small things.
9. Share credit.
10. Remain calm. Be kind.
11. Have a vision. Be demanding.
12. Don’t take counsel of your fears or naysayers.
13. Perpetual optimism is a force multiplier.


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## Viper1 (Nov 18, 2019)

The Past, Our Future • The Havok Journal 
The Past, Our Future

The past holds a lot;
bricks, stones, dark alleys.

Future: Uncertainty
Past: Anxiety

And then a friend says,
“Remember our past?

Remember the team week,
the rain, the ruck, the logs.

Remember failing, yet not?”
The past conditions, bearable, together
Our future, bearable, together.

“Not bearable?” he says. “Ruck up.”
“Suck it up. Ranger the fuck up.”

One foot in front of the other,
in footprints of those before.

Footsteps left in rice paddies and mud
Footsteps left in sand.

Footprints to mark the way,
your footprints will serve the way
For others to follow your past,

Our future.​


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## Box (Nov 19, 2019)

The Warrior Poet is back...

a warm summer day
take me out to the ball game
i ate a hot dog


enemy of truth
dishonest and deceitful
shiff is a dick face


married to a witch
most powerful man on earth
i did not inhale


smoke salt maple heat
a wonderful aroma
thick juicy bacon


soaring through the clouds
pleasure for the powerful
epstein was murdered


...haiku bitches


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## Marauder06 (Nov 20, 2019)

DZ said:


> An' there's no discharge in the war!



Yep. I can empathize with that, as I got "stoplossed" for an extended period during the war, at a time when I was trying to leave the Army.

Fortunately by that time I was out of the Infantry so no "footslogging over Africa" for me :)


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## Centermass (Nov 20, 2019)

Resurrected from the dead.......


I once thought I'd write a blog, my mind began to wander,

Instead I went and made a drink, and life I soon would ponder...

The drink I made is called a Grog, and boy, it makes you think.....

Made me think "Hey, screw the blog, I think I'd rather drink."


True story. 

RLTW-CM


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## AWP (Feb 8, 2020)

Speaking of Kipling, a look into his rather tragic life.


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