Tin soldier
I could join the war
glad as rust
I would go be the enemy
for an afternoon.
Poèmes sur le thème : soldier
Poèmes sur le thème « soldier » sur Poets.by.
Eaten by jingoes
On a road
of many lips,
the war
is every raw
expectation of
a poor Jack.
Flock
Drank my morning quiet and my noon-time stew:
a study for a ring for a wedding for old soldiers
in the dark in the park where a far flock played.
Frost Soldiers
Frost soldiers receive dark company: that dead lady, Money.
They all called home and found me.
Crushed
My first crush was a statue:
strong and silent, noble
to a fault. Realer
than the dead general
he memorialized, for his triumph
was far less fleeting.
He kept his chin up
no matter what, weathering
every pigeon. His head
was like a moon, blotchy
with seas. As for me,
I didn’t want to be seen
with my head of a beast
like an ass-backwards sphynx.
Small dogs assaulted
the space I’d left
Belligerent
they say i'm strong because
what i've done is unbelievable.
they say i am good and safe and dependable,
that i am a soldier protecting my own.
but if i am a soldier, then i must be at war.
and if this is a war, then it is one that's never happened.
a war that should have and is still waiting to.
Smt Kunjamma Wd/o Late Sep Joseph
Cheques, neatly printed, issued in favour of
Smt Kunjamma Wd/o Late Sepoy Joseph
Smt Nalini Pavithran Wd/o Late Sepoy Pavithran
Smt Chandramathy Wd/o of Late Swr Gopalan and so on and so forth
Cheques of the Army Welfare Board,
Doles, for the survivors.
Scrawling my signature over them, ticking, rapidly glancing
Back and forth at the PC and cheques
At the amounts, dates, and other details
I flip through the leaves
Cursing inwardly at the mounting work
And my aching eyes and having
To fix a glassy smile on my face – suddenly -
Before my eyes appear the mountains, the deserts
The gullies and ravines
I feel the numbing cold of the snows
The Soldier and the Samovar
They shot him as he left the house
And stripped him in the snow
But still he held the samovar
And would not let it go.
Who knows from what fine home he came
With afternoons at tea?
If I had been that lonely lad,
They would have shot at me.
For I’d have run as desperately
Behind some log to settle,
And sit me down beside my theft,
The big, old Russian kettle.
But dead he lies; the snow piles high
And winter fills the land,
And only spring will move the thing
And take it from his hand.
Soldiers
The smile of one face is like a fierce mermaid
Floating dead in a little pale-brown pond.
The lips of one are twisted
To a hieroglyphic of silence.
The face of another is like a shining frog.
Another face is met by a question
That digs into it like sudden claws.
Beside it is a face like a mirror
In which a stiffened child dangles....
Dead soldiers, in a sprawling crescent,
Whose faces form a gravely mocking sentence.
The Halt
" Mark time in front ! Rear fours cover ! Company — halt !
Order arms! Stand at — ease! Stand easy." A sudden hush:
And then the talk began with a mighty rush —
" You weren't ever in step — The sergeant. — It wasn't my fault-
Well, the Lord be praised at least for a ten minutes' halt."
We sat on a gate and watched them easing and shifting ;
Out of the distance a faint, keen breath came drifting,
From the sea behind the hills, and the hedges were salt.
Where do you halt now ? Under what hedge do you lie ?
Where the tall poplars are fringing the white French roads?
And smoke I have not seen discolours the foreign sky ?
Is the company resting there as we rested together
The Complaints IV
I was a soldier once. How fear was then
Mixed with bright honour and delightful pride !
How different we were from other men,
Who lived in houses and in houses died !
How huge the morning was, before the sun
Sullenly found us marching in the mist !
And sleep was dark and deep when work was done
And food awoke in us a greedy zest.
But all that's over. I no more shall see,
Quick to the word and ready to my hand,
The smooth and easy moving company
Marching in column on the heathery land.
There's no pride now and fear's the fear that's bred
Of money and suchlike maggots in the head.
Profiteer
I who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who
saw ten old mothers hand over their sons to the
nation anonymously, I who saw ten thousand touch
the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human
glory — why do I sneeze sardonically at a bronze
drinking fountain named after one who participated
in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?