Tag Archives: World War Two

Bloodthirsty Poppies

Bloodthirsty Poppies

I stand alone and face the world,
Rage in my heart far unfurled,
Ghostly poppies dream their chance,
To pull the blood into their trance,
Scarlet heads mark bloody fields,
The sword against the poppy yields,
For every flower marks a life,
Someone’ child dead through strife,
Soldier’s soul sustains the petal,
Pretty head far worse than nettle,
Blood released upon the ground,
Red heads sway towards the sound,
Poppies are the ones so flirty,
Poppies are the most bloodthirsty.

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Remembrance Day

In honour of Remembrance Dya, over the next few days I’ll post poems that a relevant to the subject. The first one follows.

You and I

Straight, tall soldiers developed hunches,
Lost all sight of old war grudges,
Why point the finger, appoint the blame,
You and I, I and You, we are the same, we are the same.

I have the rifle but do I shoot?
Do I play God and follow suit?
What part does God play in our war?
You and I, I and you, there are more, there are more.

A hell of sounds; sounds from Hell,
The noise of bullets covering the bell,
The bell of souls shall sound for he,
You and I, I and You, the bell of sounds will come for thee.

Blood flowed and mixed with all the mud,
To great deep holes the bodies lugged,
Soldier and death: who loses the duel?
You and I, I and You, time is cruel, time is cruel.


Poppies

This was inspired by the scenes of red poppies covering the battlefields and the graves of many soldiers.

Poppies

Red as blood, as black as coal,
Unsure as a newborn foal,
Pretty heads face from the ground,
Wars ago, you’d hear the sound,
Soldier’s marching to their fate,
Poppies marking Heaven’s gate,
Red as blood, as black as coal,
A poppy for a soldier’s soul.

Red as blood, as black as coal,
A thirst for blood beyond control,
Red flowers on the tainted dirt,
Buried beneath: a bloodied shirt,
The wind that makes the poppies dance,
Can’t stop the soldier’s brave advance,
Red as blood, as black as coal,
A poppy for a soldier’s soul.

The basic idea for this poem was based on the idea that for every poppy we see, it symbolises the loss of one soldier. Therefore showing poppies in a different light.


Tired of Guilt

Another poem written by a Jew perhaps suffering from survivor’s guilt.

Tired of Guilt

I can see your face but I know you’re not there,
I know that you are just a nightmare,
I can see in your face the hell you were in,
I can wait simply for hell to begin,
I know it could have been me, who was taken,
And still now I hope only to awaken,
It wasn’t my fault, all were at risk,
All of us suffered, no matter how brisk,
I have suffered long without you to help,
No matter how wild you were, young whelp,
You know that I loved you with all of my heart,
And it broke when we were pulled without mercy apart,
The tears have left empty grooves in my face,
But I have none left for the others to chase,
But I am still here and you are elsewhere,
I can accept it but still we move nowhere,
I shall never forget you but know I must leave,
For also I almost died for what I believe.


The Walking Dead

This poem was inspired, again, by World War Two. The story was of a doctor who helped run a Jewish orphanage. He was offered a way out of the war but he stayed with the children. Eventually German soldiers arrived and forced the doctor and the children to walk miles to the nearest concentration camp. While they walked, the doctor held the hands of one or two of the children. Here’s the result of my “inspiration”. (By the way, the sand refers to a sand timer and the smoke obviously to the burning of clothes and bodies by the Nazis and the persona is obviously one of the children holding the doctor’s hand, whispering his fears and ending up consoling the poor doctor).

The Walking Dead

We are the walking dead, aren’t we mister,

The walking dead, me and my little sister,

We’re marching to our death aren’t we sir,

Please, my little sister, can’t you help her,

Mister, you aren’t crying are you,

Come on now, it’s nothing new,

Just keep on holding my blistered hand,

It’s almost gone, all that sand,

Mister, I can be the walking dead,

‘Cause I know that He’s not just in my head,

You see the smoke of Satan’s cigar,

We are the walking dead, we are.


Warsaw

In RE we were studying Judaism and the Holocaust. Through it we were told the story of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. I liked the story as it showed the amount of courage these poor, downtrodden Jewish people had but also because they achieved something when it was thought impossible. Here’s the story.

Warsaw

I bite my lip as I face the man,

Pondering if maybe, I should have ran,

But they pushed us until it was forced to break,

No more of our own could they take,

A simple sound was all it took,

A shifty eye, a dirty look,

The rhythm of boots, invaders back,

That’s all it took for the façade to crack,

Safety catches now were off,

They started forward, pigs at a trough,

Weapons concealed now clutched in rage,

The empty street, a new blank page,

Written on it words of battle,

Filled with guns and flame and rattle,

Pouring out no matter of age,

Time to rattle the bars of the cage,

Attack and kill like a rabid dog,

Away from us they backward jog,

Anger fills and boils over,

But we are without four-leaf clover,

Luck runs out and I am caught,

I look and see the damage we wrought,

Joy I find in the depths of my heart,

For now we stopped the major depart,

I bite my lip and I look at his eyes,

And I see evil without its disguise,

Now I am sure that we have done right,

Because for us there is no white knight,

Finally we have made our brave stand,

And saved the others, just as we planned.


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