Sonnet 41, which begins ‘Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance’, may have been inspired by a real-life tournament at Whitehall in May 1581, and sees Strophic attributing his success as a jouster and horseman to Stella, who ‘Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.’ There’s one rides very sagely on the road, Showing that he affects the gravest mode.
Lo, here comes one again, he rides full speed, Hedge, ditch, nor miry bog, he doth not heed. Instead, the emphasis is on the journey itself, with the sound of the galloping horses excellently captured through the meter of the verse.
The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o’ mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker’s Horse … This 1885 poem belongs to Kipling’s early career, but sees him musing upon his death, and death in general: observing the horse which carries corpses to their final resting-place, Kipling wonders whether one day this same horse will deliver him to his grave, or whether he will outlive the creature.
Ogilvie (1869-1963) was a Scottish-Australian poet and horseman, so given these twin achievements he had to feature on this list of the best poems about horses. ‘When all the light and life are sped…’ ‘The Battered Brigade’ is another classic horse poem by this great horseman-poet.
Do memories of the races they won fifteen years ago ‘plague their ears like flies’? Beginning with the Hopkins-esque line ‘I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark’, this poem by the twentieth century’s foremost English nature poet is about Hughes watching a team of horses as light comes to the world at dawn, and reflecting on how different the animals look at such a gray and forbidding time of day.
This poem isn’t easily found online, but it is included within the Press presentation (publicly available) which we’ve linked to above. With the musical repetition of the phrase “Let us sit” Sandberg speaks on collects images of mundane life.
In ‘Boot and Saddle’ Browning uses repetition, and even a marked chorus, to describe the progress of character riding on horseback. He repeats the phrase “Boot, saddle, to the horse, and away!” several times in the poem, emphasizing this call to action.
Each line is full of power and purpose as the speaker describes sharing off to “Rescue my Castle” before the sun is fully risen. The entire poem has a quiet contemplation about it that encourages a reader to dig deeper into each line and the complexities of animal/human relationships.
The speaker addresses the horse, considering its power, its job, and the way that time will eventually come for it as well despite its placid and professional movements. Throughout the poem, Noyes uses rhyme, rhythm and figurative language to create a compelling story.
He discusses the setting, the hay that’s been “Heaped up for me to eat” and contrasts moments of peace with those of pain. The men beat the horse until he is “sore” and he determines that one day he’s going to “break the halter-rope / And smash the stable-door” and escape.
In ‘At Grass,’ Larking speaks on the fate of two famous racehorses who have long since left the track and found a new home in a pasture. He thinks on their past lives at the track and wonders if the memories of fame and acclaim haunt the horses.
The horses no longer work for the crowd, nor are they overwhelmed with these sights and sounds of the track. A darker poem, ‘The Horse Poisoner’ tells the story a reader might expect from the title.
A lesser-known poem than some on this list, ‘Why Some Girls Love Horses’ speaks on themes of childhood and coming of age. The speaker ages as the poem progress, and they learn to love the horse for its own freedom and how it is a slave to no one.
In this Enlighten article, we bring to you a selection of famous poems about the wonderful and dignified horse. “The wagon rests in winter, the sleigh in summer, the horse never.” There’s nothing as ethereal and majestic as riding horseback.
Never did something as intangible as air feel so alive and full as it did when you saw the mane of your lovable beast flying in its acknowledgment. Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window, And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches-and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks. Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called “knights” riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved. A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravansaries a gray blur in slant of rain. Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Lancelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian poniesDarken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the leisurewear they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happinessThat we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to mean nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long Aretha is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realizeThat if I stepped out of my body I would breaking blossom.
Galloping towards the base of the steep hill, watching the breeze bluster through her mane, with a mild touch I veered her with reign;For a serene moment all time stood still. Horse and mount journeying with great skill, but collectively as one we must attain;Galloping towards the base of the steep hill, watching the breeze bluster through her mane.
My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay! I’ve better counselors; what counsel they?” Where in this wide world can man find nobility without pride, friendship without envy, or beauty without vanity? Here where grace is laced with muscle and strength by gentleness confined.
When you’ve ridden a four-year-old half of the Dayan, foam to the fetlock, they lead him away, With a sigh of contentment you watch him departWhile you tighten the girths on the horse of your heart. There is something between you that both understands it thrills an old message from bit-bar to hand. As he changes his feet in that plunge of desire the thud of his hoofs all your courage takes fire. When an afternoon fox is away, when begins rush down the headland that edges the wins, When you challenge the Field, making sure of a start, Would you ask any horse but this horse of your heart? There’s the rasping big double a green one would shirk, But the old fellow knows it as part of his work;He has shortened his stride, he has measured the task, He is up, on, and over as clean as you’d ask. There’s the water before you-no novice’s test, But a jump to try deeply the boldest and best ;Just a tug at the leather, a lift of the ear, And the old horse is over it-twenty foot clear. There is four foot of wall and a take-off in plow, And you’re glad you are riding no tenderfoot nowt a seasoned campaigner, a master of art, The perfect performer-the horse of your heart. For here’s where the raw one will falter and bulk, And here’s where the tyro is pulled to a walk, But the horse of your heart never dwells or demand is over the top to a touch of the spurs. To you who ride young ones half-schooled and half-broke, What joy to find freedom a while from your yoke! What bliss to be launched with the luck of the Stanton the old one, the proved one, the horse of your heart ! Within a Meadow, on the way, A sordid Churl resolve’d to stay, And give his Horse a Bite;Purloining so his Neighbors Hay, That at the Inn he might not Paycor Forage all the Night.
With Heart’s content TH’ unloaded SteedBegan to neigh, and frisk, and feed;For nothing more he car’d, Since none of all his Master’s breed’er found such Pasture, at their need, Or half so well had far’d. When, in the turning of a Hand,Outcomes the Owner of the Land, And does the Trespass eye;Which puts poor Bayard to a Stand, For now his Master does command to return and fly.
But Hunger quick’King up his Wit, And Grass being sweeter than the Bit, He to the Clown reply’d;Shall I for you this Dinner quit, Who to my Back hard Burdens fit, And to the Death you’d ride? In a dream, I watched you ride the horse Over the dry fields and thenDismount: you two walked together;In the dark, you had no shadows. But I felt them coming toward since at night they go anywhere, They are their own masters.
And then with a low bow gave it to the first naked nude he ran across Thy love is bitter then high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than garments cost, Of more delight than Hawks or Horses bee: And having thee, of all men pride I boat.
On his chest lay heaped a hoard that will go far over the flood with him floating away… High over head they hoist his standard, a gold-woven banner, let the sea take him and give him to the ocean.” “Then dressed him Beowulf in military chain mail… His breastplate broad and bright of colors, woven by hand… Well could it guard the warrior's body that battle should break on his breast in vain nor harm his heart by the hand of a foe.
“It came into his mind to bid his men a hall to build up, a master mead-hall, mightier than the children of ages had ever heard tell of… No reckless promise maker, he gave out rings, treasure at the banquet. Therewith in the hall were laid out hard blades, the swords on the benches, and wide shields a-many held firm in the hand… Not was Beowulf there.
Another house had been set apart, after the giving of gold, for the Get renowned… To his bower full swiftly was Beowulf brought now.” This collection represents a range of thoughts and experiences as only poets can capture them.
People search for the poetry that reflects their own emotional experience losing loved ones to military conflict. It's only dust. And under Thatcher corpses buried for six thousand years. And under Thatcher rock spewed Northrop a thousand suns. And the sky is full of allspice this one. You could have your pick of them. There are enough of them go around then some. Land is not enough. There's always something Korean that to drive the soldier to his duty. Don't shoot until you know it. If not, you'll miss the mark.
A child's bedroom in Israel, riddled with shrapnel from a missile launched by the Iranian funded Hamas government in Gaza City, in November 2012. A kindergarten classroom in Israel, targeted by the Iranian funded Hamas government in Gaza City, in November 2012.
War poetry reflects the shock of the first attack, the reaction of the civilian population, and the angst of military leadership. Bombs bellowingThere's no such things shelteringBeneath the twisting tangle of these times.
Full alert cannons sputtered total worthGyring on the vortices of pi. All your life you have trained for the day ahead of you and this day is the imagining of the next day of the next week of the next war. And the budget is never enough but it has to be enough. The draft numbers are never enough but they have to beenoughand somewhere between line is drawn stopping short of the right answer.
Scan the sky and the sea and the ground, intercept communications, speak to the spies, look for the signs, prepare thedefensive-offensive-defense, the retaliation-response-ratio, the if/then/what. Write the plain the Book of Plans. Send for the savants of strategy. Tell them to forget the last war, the weapons have changed and you shall not covet your neighbor'weapon. You must covet better one. And someone will tell youth elands have not changed but you know they have, you have the photographs.
And God said,”You shall not fear” 1, but Fears your employer, and the fear of myopia is the milk stirred in your morning coffee, curded to cheese in your lunch, fed to your meat for your dinner, dining with Simona 2 in your dreams, answering the call in the night:The instruments did not warn, the sonar did not detect, the spot on the lung. Have someone's head for this. Israel's presumed nuclear capabilities are considered a weapon of last resort, also known as The Samson Option.
That war not only gave America a place on the map of nations, but it changed the course of Western Civilization. American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote his famous poem about the war for the completion of a monument commemorating the war's fallen soldiers.
In the video below, former U.S. President William Jefferson Clinton reads this poem, 'Concord Hymn.' By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Poetry written during the American Civil War is mostly considered doggerel today, but it is the authentic poetic style of the 1860s. The poetry that has survived in popularity represents the early explorers of free verse poetic style.
In this form, Walt Whitman is considered a master of poems about war. Following are free verse poems about the Civil War.
“And I crept here under the grass. And now from the battlements of time, behold:Thrice thirty million souls being bound together In the love of larger truth, Rapt in the expectation of the birth a new Beauty, Sprung from Brotherhood and Wisdom. I with eyes of spirit see the TransfigurationBefore you see it. But ye infinite brood of golden eagles nesting ever higher, Wheeling ever higher, the sun-light wooing lofty places of Thought, Forgive the blindness of the departed owl. I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge. When I felt the bullet enter my heart wished I had staid at home and gone to sailor stealing the hogs of Curl Ternary, Instead of running away and joining the army. Rather a thousand times the county Jonathan to lie under this marble figure with wings, And this granite pedestalBearing the words, Pro Atria.
Know Mohamed ran away to the earth day before Curl TrenarySwore out a warrant through Justice Abettor stealing hogs. But that's not the reason he turned a soldier. He caught me running with Lucius Atherton. We quarreled and I told him never against cross my path. Then he stole the hogs and went to the war –Back of every soldier is a woman. Walt Whitman worked throughout the war as a volunteer nurse in primitive, battlefield tent hospitals.
His Civil War poetry often reflects on the pain of wounded and dying soldiers. Bearing the bandages, water and sponge, Straight and swift to my wounded I go, Where they lie on the ground after the battle brought in, Where their priceless blood reddens the grass, the ground, Or to the rows of the hospital tent, or under the roofed hospital, To the long rows of cots up and down each side I return, To each and all one after another I draw near, not one do I miss, An attendant follows holding a tray, he carries a refuse pail, Soon to be filled with clotted rags and blood, emptied, and filled again.
From the stump of the arm, the amputated hand, I undo the clotted lint, remove the slough, wash off the matter and blood, Back on his pillow the soldier bends with curved neck and side falling head, His eyes are closed, his face is pale, he dares not look on the bloody stump, And has not yet looked on it. I dress the perforated shoulder, the foot with the bullet-wound, Cleanse the one with a gnawing and putrid gangrene, so sickening, so offensive, While the attendant stands behind aside me holding the tray and pail.
Chief among the remembered World War I soldier poets is Wilfred Owen. A British son, Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was killed in action in northern France in 1918, fighting a courageous battle that posthumously earned him the Military Cross.
His poems survived in letters written to his mother, in his diaries, and in hand-written manuscripts found with his body. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honor, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War.
He wrote In Flanders Fields, perhaps the most famous of all World War 1 poems, when a close friend died in battle. In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the scythe larks, still bravely singing, scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead.
Short days age lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lien Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throttle torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who died shall not sleep, though poppies growing Flanders fields. Siegfried Sassoon wrote many of the famous First World War poems.
The General maiden we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. 'He's a cheery old card,' grunted Harry to Jacks they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
Siegfried Sassoon's famous World War I poem is put by music by Peter Doherty. I knew a simple soldier who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With clumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. You smug-faced crowds with kindling Erewhon cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never another hell where youth and laughter go.
In the old wars clutches of short swords and jabs into faces with spears. In the new wars long range guns and smashed walls, gunrunning a spit of metal and men falling in tens and twenties. In the wars to come new silent deaths, new silent hurler snot yet dreamed out in the heads of men. Under the snare sixteen million men, Chosen for shining teeth, Sharp eyes, hard legs, And a running of young warm blood in their wrists.
I never forget them day or night:They beat on my head for memory of them;They pound on my heart and I cry back to them, To their homes and women, dreams and games. Some of them tumbling to sleep to-morrow for always, Fixed in the drag of the world's heartbreak, Eating and drinking, toiling.
Fighting in France in 1918, American poet Joyce Killer wrote this poem upon losing 21 comrades in battle. Five months later, the poem was read at Killer's own grave when he was killed in action at the age of 31.
In a wood they call the Rouge BouquetThere is a new-made grave to-day, Built by never a spade nor picket covered with earth ten meters thick. There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love against taste the Summer. For Death came flying through the Armand stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey and left them there, Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they fought to freehand fled away. Now over the grave abrupt and carefree volleys ring;And perhaps their brave young spirits hearth bugle sing:”Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, You will not need them anymore. Danger's past;Now at last, Go to sleep!” There is on earth no worthier grave hold the bodies of the brakeman this place of pain and maidenhair they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skiesSaints and angels standSmiling with their holy arson this new-come band. St.
Michael's sword darts through the Armand touches the aureole on his areas he sees them stand saluting there, His stalwart sons;And Patrick, Brigid, ColumkillRejoice that in veins of warriors still Gael's blood runs. And up to Heaven's doorway floats, From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, A delicate cloud of buglenotesThat softly say:”Farewell! Farewell! Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! Your souls shall be where the heroes Armand your memory shine like the morning-star. Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!” On their foreheads and breasts the little holes where death came INS thunder, while they were playing their important summer games.
Do not weep for them, Made. They are gone forever, the little ones, Straight to heaven to the saints, And God will fill the bullet holes with candy. What we do have for World War Two poetry is no less remarkable and documents the struggles of a different generation.
Following are three poems from soldier poets who served in the war. Keith Douglas was already a published poet while studying at Oxford when the war began.
The noble horse with courage in his eye, clean in the bone, looks up at a shell burst:away fly the images of the shires but he puts the pipe back in his mouth. Peter was unfortunately killed by an 88;it took his leg away, he died in the ambulance. I saw him crawling on the sand, he said It's most unfair, they've shot my foot off. How can I live among this gentle obsolescent breed of heroes, and not weep? Unicorns, almost, for they are fading into two legend sin which their stupidity and chivalry are celebrated. Each, fool and hero, will be an immortal. These plains were their cricket pitch and in the mountains the tremendous drop fences brought down some runners.
A Soldier Poet, Alan Lewis saw combat against the Japanese in Burma. Two volumes of World War Two poetry survive as well as many short stories.
He died at the age of 86 in the year 2000, leaving behind a full body of poetic works. Workers raiseTheir oily arms in good salute and grin. Kids scream as at a circus.
Business vengeance hopefully and go their measured way. And women standing at their dumbstruck door More slowly wave and seem to warn us back, As if a tear blinding the course of wright once dissolve our iron in their sweet wish. Fruit of the world, O clustered on ourselves hang as from a cornucopia In total friendliness, with faces bunched spray the streets with catcalls and with leers. A bottle smashes on the moving Taiwan eyes fixed on a lady smiling backstretch like a rubber-band and snap and single mouth that wants the drink-of-water kiss.
At lathe place of life found after trains and death –Nightfall of nations brilliant after war. So profound was its effect on humanity, that it has its own remembrance day and has become a literary genre as well.
Yes, I have seen the great caches, Rooms full of shoes and eyeglassesInside the barbed fence of Auschwitz. And in Treblinka 1, plowed in rows, The tiny little shoes and clothes. Where is the field of teddy bears? 1 Dr. Adolf Berman, a survivor of the Warsaw ghetto, was with Soviet troops when they reached the Treblinka concentration camp.
This shoe is now on display at the Yad Vashem Museum of the Holocaust in Jerusalem, Israel. The Exodus Ship with its 4,515 passengers (1,672 of whom were children) was sent back to the DP camps of Germany.
At the end of World War I, the victors broke up the Ottoman Empire and the Holy Land was administered by a Mandate given to Britain. On November 2, 1917, the United Kingdom Foreign Secretary Arthur James Balfour issued a declaration to Britain's Jewish community that called for the establishment of a Jewish nation in the Holy Land.
During the 1930s, when many Jews were fleeing the Nazi takeover of Europe, Britain closed the gates of Jewish immigration. This policy continued until April 1947, when the United States committed its military forces to intervene against the British to allow the resettlement of 100,000 Jewish Holocaust survivors.
Unable to stand against the resistance of Arab governments, the U.K. petitioned the U.N. to take jurisdiction for the Holy Land and to terminate its mandate. The British Mandate was to be terminated with withdrawal of forces from the territory as soon as possible.
Amidst the euphoria of his fellow Jews, future first President of Israel Chief Weizmann issued a dire warning: Jewish poet Nathan Alderman published his poem Ma gash Hakes (The Silver Platter) in early December 1947.
Young Jewish Woman Throws a Grenade in Israel's War of Independence … And the land will grow stillCrimson skies dimming, mistingSlowly paling Hanover smoking frontiers.
Then they fall back in darkness As the dazed nation quicksand the rest can be founding the history books. Few poems from the Vietnam era have survived in popularity; but the songs remain.
Several recordings from the folk-pop music of those years have stood the test of time by retaining their popularity. Shot to the top of the charts when the folk group Peter, Paul and Mary recorded it on their namesake, first album in 1962.
Canadian folk singer Buffy Sainte-Marie wrote the lyrics and music for Universal Soldier and released the song on her first album in 1964. It was picked up by a British folksinger, Donovan, who released his recording in the U.K. in the summer of 1965.
The song was recorded by Barry McGuire and became an instant hit in the U.S., reaching the top of the charts by September 1965. Some radio stations in America and in Scotland banned the song as an anti-Vietnam War message.
They tape grenades inside their clothes, and carry satchel charge sin their market baskets. The Napalm Girl photo at the right was distributed by The Associated Press and appeared in every major newspaper and magazine in the U.S.
It depicts children hit by napalm chemical weapons during the war. The photographer, Nick Ut, saved the little girl's life and won a Pulitzer Prize for this photo.
They twine din tangles by our cottage in Pennsylvania. Inside, another article by Thomas White side.2, 4, 5-T, teratogenicity in births;South Vietnam 1/7th defoliated; residual rivers, foods, and mother's milk. With a scientific turn of mind I can understand that malformations in lab mice may not occur in children but when, last week, I ushered hare-lipped, tusk-toothed kids to surgery in Saigon, I wondered, what did they drink that I have drunk. What dioxin, pictogram, arsenic have knitted in my cells, in my wife now carrying our first child.
4. Out of the night, wounded with the gibbering of dogs, wheezing with the squeaks of rats, out of the night, its belly split by jet whine and mortar blast, scissored by the claws of children, street-sleepers, ripping their way free from cocoons of mosquito netting to flee the rupturing burst sand the air dancing with razors–out, I came, to safe haven. Nor looked, nor asked further. Who would? I said. I said: Feed and bathe me. In Japan, I climbed Mr. Via in midwinter. The deer snuffled my mittens. The monkeys came to beg. I met Moses meeting God in the clouds. The cold wind cleared my soul. The mountain was hidden in mist.
For the most part, this anthology of Vietnam War poems is a collection of poetry by soldier poets. American life, America's existence, was not threatened in this war.
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner is the most famous poem of World War Two. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the fetus in the womb.
The fighters which attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. 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.
John McGee holds a special place in the hearts of pilots the world over. An American, he joined the Canadian Air Force before the U.S. entered World War Two and was killed in flight over Lincolnshire, England.
He wrote the most famous air force war poem ever written, High Flight. He wrote the poem in the cockpit while flying at 30,000 feet and mailed it to his parents upon landing.
Rise in the Garland in the dark spirit the purpose the war suits up your hereto do your harebrained in the routine of it Mount the war-birdBelly full of bombard on the tarmacWait. Hold back. Pause. Because birds gliding the gilded wings of dawnDeliver their ordnance of lengthen godly your swift mission of sorrows birds may singing our land of tomorrows.
Frisk the long sides of the niftier the hidden weaponConcealed in a dark fold, Unsuspected, undetected. It is there. Slice through the black herewith a swooshing of Shetland chop up the night like a geode, Until you find it. It is there.
Takeoff from Tel Of Air Force Base in Israel New descramble starting throttlesInto afterburner White pillow jet smooth sky speakingWind shearsAlready the signs:Hard landing.
1 Tel Of is an Air Force base in central Israel. The photo is an Israeli Air Force F-15I Ra'am/Eagle fighter jet, in takeoff from Tel Of.
Israeli children running to bomb shelter when air raid siren is sounded. First Gulf War Poetry represents a brief period of actual combat.
On the other side of the planet, people watched in disbelief at what looked like a surreal, magnificent fireworks display. This Gulf War poem was written as Israel prepared for the 40 Iraqi Scud missiles that were soon to hit the nation.
It was the waiting of the worried mother;It was the face of earth young man wore as a new uniform;It was the wrench of wild overlooking for food;It was the stupor of overlooking for sleep;It was the child whose eyes were burned, And she could no longer cry;It was the face of a thousand children could do nothing but cry;It was the man who came backWithout a faced his is the face we remembered we remember the war. The following poem is an excerpt from a new collection from an American poet, Clamor by Else Benton.
Writer Fox™ war poetry on this page appears for the first time online. All poems were previously published in North American and international literary publications, such as Nexus (of Wright State University), I Speak for Peace (Wellesley College), Sri Chimney Spiritual Poetry Awards, Bitterroot, The Harbinger (University of South Alabama), Response/A Contemporary Jewish Review (University of Oxford), Writer's Journal Magazine, Midwest Poetry Review, and anthologized in The Gulf War: Many Perspectives (Vermin Press), and Out of Season (Narragansett Press).
Find 20 poetic definitions of peace from war, first published in The Journal of New Jersey Poets : Read famous poems about the most spiritual city on earth and relive its history in poetry.
You can leave your own favorite war poetry in the Comments section below. I will be coming back to read more poetry on this hub, thank you for sharing so many of your wonderful war poems.
Hi Flourish and Rachael: What a pleasant surprise to find that both of you found this page and enjoyed my poetry. I long for the day when war is just a memory and the way things used to be, like cowboys and Indians.
The Vietnam War was a turning point in America's history and the people who remember it first-hand are now grandparents. My grandfather fought in WWI, father in WWII, brother was stationed in Korea (after the war), and my daughter nearly got sent to Iran through the U.S. Army, but was given a medical discharge.
When I returned to my hometown in 2001, I spent a fair amount of time reading names and dates on cemetery headstones. He rode the school bus, same as I, every day, was quiet, well-mannered, and usually had a smile on his face--and there he was, killed in the Vietnam War, the war so many Americans hated because, as one of the poems in your hub mentioned, you couldn't tell the enemies from the civilians.
I just ordered “Slow Wall” by Leonor Speer because it had a poem I interpreted in high school (!) We hated the colonel, rigid he'd stand and thrust out his hand and say, 'Hal Hitler'....
Question of Cain in his dire stress, answer of God and pitiless, The sad thing is that when traffic increases to this webpage, it is a sign that people are expecting war.
Many more people are finding this collection of war poetry and I think it is due to the current crisis in Syria. I think every time a hub goes through Map, it starts out with a low score and slowly rises with traffic and comments.