N
Newboy
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
1914
I’m sitting here now
Trying to put pen to paper
Trying to write something
That you can relate too
It’s hard to relate
To my personal circumstances
I’m out here in Afghanistan now
Taking my chances
Read what you read
And say what you say
You wont understand it
Until you’ve lived it day by day
Poverty-stricken people
With medieval ways
Will take you life without a thought
And now we’re all the same
Each playing our part in this brutal game
Alex Cockersl,
2010
I watched the burials in the cemetery overlooking Ajax Bay,
grieved with their companions; thought of families far away.
There is a lonelier ground than this, so I’ve heard tell,
but where was it to be found? Nowhere this side of Hell.
T.V and newspapers have proclaimed the fighting’s glory;
for those down there it was a different tale; a truer story
of men, not all young, who fought and survived
their unlucky comrades-at-arms who have died.
How to account for each precious life taken away –
is it enough to recall that they did their duty this day?
Tell it so to those families who, in desolation and sorrow,
have given up yesterday’s light for a black tomorrow.
Tell it to men dead in the mud or floating in the sea
but for Christ’s sake don’t try and tell that to me.
Ships sunk; aircraft down; men missing, believed dead
good viewing on the nightly news before the nation goes to bed.
But our news was relief at another day seen through
and hope that the coming night’s fears were survivable, too.
“Hit the deck, hit the deck” is the loudspeaker’s awful call
as we scramble from sleep to the “Action Stations” alarm thrall.
Snapshots of one’s life flash past –
grab a breath and wonder if it could be the last.
“You survived, you came home” the disbelieving voices cried,
“what of the real heroes who did not return, those who died?”
“True” my friends, “no scars to show and our faces are unlined;
but, oh, if only you could feel the wounds gaping in our minds”.
“Would you fight again?” ask the silent whispers of the night,
As I try to forget the apocalyptic visions which are a blight
on my peace. Yes, oh yes, when others of my blood have lost
their freedom, their way of life; and not to count the cost.
War-broken bodies were healed, returned to a normality:
ravaged pysches festered unseen in their distorted reality.
Two hundred and fifty-five men did not return victorious from this war;
almost thirty years on, and lonely suicides have doubled that score.
Nicholas Lutwyche
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
1914
I’m sitting here now
Trying to put pen to paper
Trying to write something
That you can relate too
It’s hard to relate
To my personal circumstances
I’m out here in Afghanistan now
Taking my chances
Read what you read
And say what you say
You wont understand it
Until you’ve lived it day by day
Poverty-stricken people
With medieval ways
Will take you life without a thought
And now we’re all the same
Each playing our part in this brutal game
Alex Cockersl,
2010
I watched the burials in the cemetery overlooking Ajax Bay,
grieved with their companions; thought of families far away.
There is a lonelier ground than this, so I’ve heard tell,
but where was it to be found? Nowhere this side of Hell.
T.V and newspapers have proclaimed the fighting’s glory;
for those down there it was a different tale; a truer story
of men, not all young, who fought and survived
their unlucky comrades-at-arms who have died.
How to account for each precious life taken away –
is it enough to recall that they did their duty this day?
Tell it so to those families who, in desolation and sorrow,
have given up yesterday’s light for a black tomorrow.
Tell it to men dead in the mud or floating in the sea
but for Christ’s sake don’t try and tell that to me.
Ships sunk; aircraft down; men missing, believed dead
good viewing on the nightly news before the nation goes to bed.
But our news was relief at another day seen through
and hope that the coming night’s fears were survivable, too.
“Hit the deck, hit the deck” is the loudspeaker’s awful call
as we scramble from sleep to the “Action Stations” alarm thrall.
Snapshots of one’s life flash past –
grab a breath and wonder if it could be the last.
“You survived, you came home” the disbelieving voices cried,
“what of the real heroes who did not return, those who died?”
“True” my friends, “no scars to show and our faces are unlined;
but, oh, if only you could feel the wounds gaping in our minds”.
“Would you fight again?” ask the silent whispers of the night,
As I try to forget the apocalyptic visions which are a blight
on my peace. Yes, oh yes, when others of my blood have lost
their freedom, their way of life; and not to count the cost.
War-broken bodies were healed, returned to a normality:
ravaged pysches festered unseen in their distorted reality.
Two hundred and fifty-five men did not return victorious from this war;
almost thirty years on, and lonely suicides have doubled that score.
Nicholas Lutwyche
