Craiglockhart - by
Sassoon, the elder, Sunday golfer; / Owen, bookish, gangly, pale – mingling / with the queue for the refectory.
war
Dulce Et Decorum Est - by
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest / To children ardent for some desperate glory, / The…
It Was Easier - by
Now over the map that took ten million years
/ Of rain and sun to crust like boiler-slag,
/ The lines of fighting men…
Every Woman - by
Who can gauge our range or pace? Every woman, / a signal tower, an illusion, a ship bearing dead ahead.
Logos - by
She walks on the charred ground, wings of smoke
/ from the bones of her home rising.
/
/ ‘Here was, there used to be,…
Last Bus Ride in July – a Mother Speaks (Genocide – Srebrenica, July, 1995; Karadzic captured – Belgrade, July, 2008) - by
Summer grass is shoulder high once more, / higher than my sons will ever be.
From the Line - by
Have you seen men come from the Line,
/ Tottering, doddering, as if bad wine
/ Had drugged their very souls;
/ Their…
Recruiting - by
Take your risk of life and death
/ Underneath the open sky.
/ Live clean or go out quick –
/ Lads, you’re wanted. Come and…
In No Man’s Land - by
Anyway, shooting is over bold,
/ Oh, damn you, get back to your trench, you blighter,
/ I really can’t shoot a man with…
The Permanence of the Young Men - by
No man outlives the grief of war
/ Though he outlive its wreck:
/ Upon the memory a scar
/ Through all his years will ache.
/
/ Hopes…
from Memorial - by
The first to die was PROTESILAUS / A focused man who hurried to darkness / With forty black ships leaving…
Hame-comin - by
Hame, hame, hame on the truck,
/ the wheels grind their grumly air, …