The former soldier started writing poetry in 1914, aged 36. He wrote Back the next year. Many soldiers were able to relate to this piece

Transcription

1 For the Fallen The human tragedy of World War One remembered... by our nation s greatest poets The former soldier started writing poetry in 1914, aged 36. He wrote Back the next year. Many soldiers were able to relate to this piece when they came back to England with regrets and nightmares about what they had seen and done. Listen to musician and TV presenter Marvin Humes read this at Back Wilfrid Gibson ( ) They ask me where I ve been, And what I ve done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn t I, But someone just like me, Who went across the sea And with my head and hands Killed men in foreign lands... Though I must bear the blame, Because he bore my name.

2 At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them For the Fallen Laurence Binyon ( ) With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. From For The Fallen by Lawrence Binyon Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. Ultimate price: Italian soldiers lay in a trench after suffering at the hands of German machine guns at the Hill of Cividale, Italy Binyon wrote the poem in September 1914, perched on a cliffside in Cornwall a few weeks after the breakout of the war. There is a plaque to commemorate the spot. Listen to this poem read, line by line, by a host of celebrities at They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted, They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England s foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain, As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain. Over the top: British troops prepare themselves in trenches before an assault at Battle of the Somme in 1916 Owen wrote this in September 1917 with the help of fellow poet Siegfried Sassoon while both were recovering from shellshock at Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh. Owen returned to the frontline in the summer of 1918 and died on November 4 that year aged almost exactly a week to the hour before the signing of the armistice. Listen to this read by TV and radio presenter John Humphreys at Anthem For Doomed Youth Wilfred Owen ( ) 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.

3 If I should die, think only this of me, That there s some corner of a foreign field that is The Soldier Rupert Brooke ( ) forever England From The Soldier by Rupert Brooke Watching over us: a crucifix survives shelling while troops lie scattered in this picture by teenage German gunner Walter Kleinfeldt If I should die, think only this of me: That there s some corner of a foreign field That is forever 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 the 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. Listen to this read by musician Tinchy Stryder at First recited from the pulpit of St Paul s Cathedral in 1915 on Easter Sunday, then published the next day, it quickly became renowned as one of the finest war poems. Later that month Brooke died from an infected mosquito bite he got a month earlier sailing with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary force. Good-byee: a soldier bids a fond farewell to a loved one at London s Victoria Station as he leaves for south coast before heading to the front Listen to this read by musician Rochelle Humes at Written in 1917 in direct response to Rupert Brooke s The Soldier, this is a tribute to the soldiers sacrifice. Herschel-Clarke was best known for her anti-war poetry and this focuses on the feelings of the mothers whose sons would never return. The Mother May Herschel-Clarke ( ) If you should die, think only this of me In that still quietness where is space for thought, Where parting, loss and bloodshed shall not be, And men may rest themselves and dream of nought: That in some place a mystic mile away One whom you loved has drained the bitter cup Till there is nought to drink; has faced the day Once more, and now, has raised the standard up. And think, my son, with eyes grown clear and dry She lives as though for ever in your sight, Loving the things you loved, with heart aglow For country, honour, truth, traditions high, Proud that you paid their price. (And if some night Her heart should break well, lad, you will not know.

4 w Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge Dulce et Decorum Est Wilfred Owen ( ) From Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Mudshed: soldiers in the trenches during the Battle of Passchendaele on November 1, 1917 Listen to radio presenter Nick Ferrari read this at Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori. Tender care: a nurse with wounded American soldiers in Florida, 1918 Owen s most famous piece was originally drafted in October 1917 while he lay recovering from shellshock at Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh. Sassoon challenges the accepted propaganda of the glory of war with this challenging and shocking poem from 1918 about losing your limbs during conflict. Listen to actor Kym Marsh read this at Does it Matter? Siegfried Sassoon ( ) Does it matter? losing your legs?... For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When others come in after hunting To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter? losing your sight?... There s such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light. Do they matter those dreams in the pit?... You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won t say that you re mad; For they know that you ve fought for your country, And no one will worry a bit.

5 We are the Dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved From In Flanders Fields by John McCrae Respect: thousands gather for Armistice Day at London s temporary Cenotaph at Whitehall in 1919 In Flanders Fields John McCrae ( ) In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. Festive break: British troops attempt to celebrate Christmas Day with a meal together (top) Sign writer: British troop paints street names for the confusing criss-cross of trenches (above) By using a Bishop s sermon Sassoon manages to show the Establishment s unconvincing stance on the fight. We have more sympathy for the soldiers response and find it difficult to find any comfort in the final line. Listen to actor Rakhee Thakrar read this at They Siegfried Sassoon ( ) The Bishop tells us: When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they ll have fought In a just cause: they lead the last attack On Anti-Christ; their comrades blood has bought New right to breed an honourable race, They have challenged Death and dared him face to face. We re none of us the same! the boys reply. For George lost both his legs; and Bill s stone blind; Poor Jim s shot through the lungs and like to die; And Bert s gone syphilitic: you ll not find A chap who s served that hasn t found some change. And the Bishop said: The ways of God are strange! We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was a Canadian physician. After burying his friend and fellow soldier at Ypres, McCrae was drawn to poetry. His own worst critic, he discarded this work only for it to be discovered by other soldiers. Listen to TV presenter Gethin Jones read this at

6 That heaven might heal the world, they gave their earth-born From Marching Men by Marjorie Pickthall Struggle: a wounded soldier crawls back to the snowy trenches near Arras in January 1917 This is an example of the glorification of the soldiers and their plight. By calling them Christs and referring to Heaven, the soldiers sacrifice becomes glorified and moving. The religious imagery tries to show all the soldiers who served were being righteous and therefore would undoubtedly be received in heaven. dreams to deck the grave Marching Men Marjorie Pickthall ( ) Under the level winter sky I saw a thousand Christs go by. They sang an idle song and free As they went up to calvary. Careless of eye and coarse of lip, They marched in holiest fellowship. That heaven might heal the world, they gave Their earth-born dreams to deck the grave. With souls unpurged and steadfast breath They supped the sacrament of death. And for each one, far off, apart, Seven swords have rent a woman s heart. Listen to TV presenter Jake Humphrey read this at Desperation: medics struggle with a wounded soldier on a stretcher in knee-deep mud at Boesinghe in August 1917 Last Post Carol Ann Duffy ( ) In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud... but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood run upwards from the slime into its wounds; see lines and lines of British boys rewind back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers not entering the story now to die and die and die. Dulce No Decorum No Pro patria mori. You walk away. You walk away; drop your gun ( fixed bayonet) like all your mates do too Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert and light a cigarette. There s coffee in the square, warm French bread and all those thousands dead are shaking dried mud from their hair and queuing up for home. Freshly alive, a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings. You lean against a wall, your several million lives still possible and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food. You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile. If poetry could truly tell it backwards, then it would. After she was appointed poet laureate in 2009, Carol Ann Duffy wrote this poem to mark the death of Harry Patch, the last surviving veteran of the Great War. Listen to Carol Ann Duffy read her own poem at

7 If any question why we died... From Epitaphs: Common Form by Rudyard Kipling Listen to these World War One poems at mirror.co.uk/ forthefallen and many others including Tina Malone reading The Volunteer by Herbert Asquith; Jeremy Vine reads Returning We Hear The Larks by Isaac Rosenburg; Sarah Jane Crawford reads On the Idle Hill of Summer by AE Housman; Kate Garraway reads War Girls byjessie Pope; Ruth Langsford reads Education by Pauline Barrington; Sharon Marshall reads May 1915 by Charlotte Mew; Eamonn Holmes reads Lights Out by Edward Thomas; Jeff Brazier reads If We Return by FW Harvey; Sarah Hewson reads To His Love by Ivor Gurney; Mark Austin reads My Boy Jack by Rudyard Kipling. A selection of these poems are extracted from The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry, 8.99, Penguin. Epitaphs: Common Form Rudyard Kipling ( ) If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied. Kipling lost his only son at war, and this is a powerful lament for the youth who go out and fight on the orders of older men who run the country. Listen to former World Heavyweight boxing champ Frank Bruno read this at Patriotic fervour: thousands queue to sign up at a London Army recruiting office (top) in December 1915 All aboard: troops leave from Victoria Station for the south coast on their way to the front in 1916 (above) Photos: Getty Images, The Hulton Archive, The Imperial War Museum, Mirrorpix, Popperfoto, Topfoto, Testimony Films. July 27, 2014