Three poems, three perspectives on war and the ultimate sacrifice
Anthem for doomed youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen
September - October, 1917
Wilfred Owen was killed at Ors, near the French Belgian border, on 4 November 1918, at the age of 25.
Entrenched
Trembling down in the trench, thinking of nothing but home,
Above I hear a roar, another mine has blown.
There is no turning back, the battle must go on,
Nonetheless it seems to me all meaningless and wrong.
As if one shot from me, will help the war at all,
My task is to 'go o'er the top', to fire and then to fall.
Of course I love my country, but I'm too young to die,
Echoing all around I hear the bitter battle cry.
I wish I hadn't come, I wish I wasn't here,
But it is far too late, and I'm overcome with fear.
I once felt so very proud that I was going to fight,
But how can any man have pride, after seeing this harrowing sight.
I long for freedom, and yet more for peace,
The day when this endless war will cease.
But for now I value every given breath,
For the time draws near when I shall meet my certain death.
Above I hear a roar, another mine has blown.
There is no turning back, the battle must go on,
Nonetheless it seems to me all meaningless and wrong.
As if one shot from me, will help the war at all,
My task is to 'go o'er the top', to fire and then to fall.
Of course I love my country, but I'm too young to die,
Echoing all around I hear the bitter battle cry.
I wish I hadn't come, I wish I wasn't here,
But it is far too late, and I'm overcome with fear.
I once felt so very proud that I was going to fight,
But how can any man have pride, after seeing this harrowing sight.
I long for freedom, and yet more for peace,
The day when this endless war will cease.
But for now I value every given breath,
For the time draws near when I shall meet my certain death.
Pippa Moss
A poem written when the author was fourteen-years-old.
A poem written when the author was fourteen-years-old.
Lest We Forget
What do we forget when we remember
What are the stories left untold
What do we think each November
As we march down that glory road
As we march down that gory road
One hundred million
Don’t come home from war
Another eight hundred million
Who lived to bear its scar
Who lived to bear its scar
Lest we forget
What they were dying for
Lest we forget
What they were killing for
Lest we forget
What the hell it was for
What do we forget when we remember…
Owen Griffiths
What are the stories left untold
What do we think each November
As we march down that glory road
As we march down that gory road
One hundred million
Don’t come home from war
Another eight hundred million
Who lived to bear its scar
Who lived to bear its scar
Lest we forget
What they were dying for
Lest we forget
What they were killing for
Lest we forget
What the hell it was for
What do we forget when we remember…
Owen Griffiths
Owen Griffiths is an Associate Professor of History at a university in Canada. His area of study is especially modern East Asia (Japan and China mainly).
He writes: " I have never been to war but both grandfathers (both British) fought in WWI and my father fought with the RAF in Europe and Asia in WWII. My mother worked in a mortar shell factory and a pig farm in England during WWII. My parents immigrated to Canada after the war in 1949, among the many who passed through Pier 21 in Halifax (Canada's Ellis Island). My father was a navigator on the Argus for the RCAF so I lived on air bases in Canada until I was 10. Professionally, I currently have two main research fields: One, examines how Japanese society from the 1890s to the 1930s became increasingly militarized by analyzing the stories written for children in mainstream print media. The other argues for a reorientation of our systems and tropes of remembrance to include killing and dying on all sides in the hopes of constructing more honest and accurate representations of war as universal tragedy and as a common ground of human inhumanity."
He writes: " I have never been to war but both grandfathers (both British) fought in WWI and my father fought with the RAF in Europe and Asia in WWII. My mother worked in a mortar shell factory and a pig farm in England during WWII. My parents immigrated to Canada after the war in 1949, among the many who passed through Pier 21 in Halifax (Canada's Ellis Island). My father was a navigator on the Argus for the RCAF so I lived on air bases in Canada until I was 10. Professionally, I currently have two main research fields: One, examines how Japanese society from the 1890s to the 1930s became increasingly militarized by analyzing the stories written for children in mainstream print media. The other argues for a reorientation of our systems and tropes of remembrance to include killing and dying on all sides in the hopes of constructing more honest and accurate representations of war as universal tragedy and as a common ground of human inhumanity."
