War, Conflict - Poetry, Peace
December 2018
#120
Guerra, Conflicto, Poesía Y Paz
Cuando el tiempo que yo me recuerdo en mi juventud en los años pasados, el viento de la pared de calle y la tormenta que los generals dicen que los pobres van a Guerra en el mercado de la vida. Sobre la tierra sin pensar de amor yo no me rio en el libro de los muertos. Yo soy Ramón, Carlito, José, Cholo, y Pepito. En el cementerio. Fueron a Vietnam en su juventud. Amor mío te espera en el día y noche cuando el Dr Martin Luther King habló, “We must break the silence and bring the troops home now.” The Fifth Avenue Peace Parade Committee. Yo amo a los que luchan en cada calle en cada día para el derecho de aprender en la comunidad y controlar en el Barrio de Harlem y Ocean Hill-Brownsville – PS 144. Una flor sube cerca de mi corazón a mi hermanas y hermanos en la Campaña del Pueblo Pobre donde en mayo nacieron en mi alma. 50 años yo no me voy a olvidar el pueblo que luchó sin hambre y viviencia y paz y justicia. En esta gran estrella que nació en Bayamo, este es mi sueño, es una flor a mi abuela Leocadia Álvarez y mi abuelo Marcelo Álvarez. Cada día de mi vida en el nombre que doy a la tierra, el valor de mis poemas y paso de un día hecho al otro. Cada día cuando el sol sube, en frente de una rosa de los obreros de la tierra y las madres que sufren la oscuridad de hambre y sin un lugar para sobrevivir. Es tiempo para gritar Paz paz, un mundo sin Guerra en el jardín de mentiras. Y no es possible de cantar el ritmo de nostalgia de Nancy Wilson, guanta tu amor pa’mi. Presente.
War, Conflict, Poetry And Peace
When the time that I remember of my youth in the past years, the wind of Wall Street wall and the storm that the generals say that the poor go to war in the market of life. On earth without thinking of love I did not laugh in the book of the dead. I am Ramón, Carlito, José, Cholo, and Pepito. In the cemetery. They went to Vietnam in their youth. My love awaits you in the day and night when Dr Martin Luther King spoke "We must break the silence and bring the troops home now." The Fifth Avenue Peace Parade Committee. I love those who struggle on every street every day for the right to learn in the community and control in Harlem and Ocean Hill-Brownsville - PS 144. A flower comes up close to my heart to my sisters and brothers in the Poor People’s Campaign where in May they were born in my soul. 50 years I am not going to forget the people who fought without hunger and life and peace and justice. In this great star that was born in Bayamo, this is my dream, it is a flower to my grandmother Leocadia Álvarez and my grandfather Marcelo Álvarez. Every day of my life in the name that I give to the earth, the value of my poems and one day made to the other. Every day when the sun rises, in front of a rose of the workers of the earth and mothers who suffer the darkness of hunger and without a place to survive. It's time to shout Peace Peace, a world without war in the garden of lies. And it is not possible to sing the nostalgia of Nancy Wilson, hold your love fo'me. Presente.
© 12/9/18 Carlos Raúl Dufflar
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective
Kathy And The New Students
Little Kathy Colheath was a first year Primary School pupil at the Forkslear School of Adventure. It was her parents' old school and it was not like any other. The classrooms and school grounds took on whatever forms the teachers and pupils imagined them to and already, Kathy loved the place. She had even becomes friends with a girl in her class named Joany. It was now Remembrance Day so Kathy's teacher Mrs Josephs had requested that the pupils wore poppies and then she took them into the school play area, instructing them to imagine they were in a field of poppies. This they did and then Mrs Josephs instructed them to take a closer look at the poppies but not to touch them. Each poppy appeared to have a name on it and they were arranged in a formation that Kathy recognised as the standards of a Military Platoon. The leaves on the poppies even made them look like they were saluting. Eventually, the other teachers and pup ils turned up, followed by the School Headteacher then all the teachers stood in a line with their students lined up behind them and the Headteacher asked for silence as the clock struck 11. After a couple of minutes, the Headteacher called the teachers and pupils into the Assembly Hall that, like the rest of the rooms, was initially bare but instantly became adorned with poppies. Once all pupils had sat down, the Headteacher announced that Mrs Josephs' class would be receiving some new students the next day. Kathy and her fellow first years gasped in amazement and were excited. When Kathy got home that afternoon, she told her parents about what her teacher had shown her and the other pupils and the Headteacher's announcement. Mr and Mrs Colheath explained that their teachers had done the same thing when they were at Forkslear. Kathy was curious as all children her age were but Mrs Colheath said her own parents would be able to explain better than she could as they were Military His torians and collected Military Artefacts. Mr Colheath meanwhile, had a feeling he knew what the Headteacher meant by "new students" and simply instructed Kathy to be as nice as possible.
The next day, Kathy noticed a Memorial had appeared next to the Main Entrance to the School. That morning, Mrs Josephs talked to Kathy and the other pupils about the previous day and asked them what they thought War meant. Most of them said it involved tanks, planes, fighting, big bangs and people getting hurt as well as commenting that it was horrible and sad. Kathy just said she didn't know but her Grandma and Granddad would. Mrs Josephs quite agreed with her pupils' sentiments and introduced them to the new students. There were two of them and they hadn't lived in England very long. They and their parents had had to leave their home and possessions and had moved to England to find a decent school and a safe place to live as their home country was no longer safe for them. Mrs Josephs tried to keep the new students' backstory as simple as possible and requested that everyone be especially nice to them and make them feel welcome. Kathy of course had already been told that and underst ood more than most of the other pupils as her grandparents had told her similar stories of Sacrifice before and she and Joany turned to each other, swearing to do just what Mrs Josephs and Mr Colheath said, even crossing their hearts.
Michael C. Bungay
Stevenage Survivors Poetry
Sweet Peace
Through clouds of steam and grit standing on the platform,
the designated departure zone,
holding tight to loved ones in sad embrace,
saying brave goodbyes, waving flags and hankies high
as the train chuffs out the station to take your men to war.
Through the chill of Autumn and the first cold winds,
you pray for Christmas to arrive soon
and your men to come back home,
the ones who stay behind bearing the children, the pains
torn between pride and anger that those men are far away on blooded lands.
Through the smoke and rubble amongst the remains of your home,
you curse the politicians for their false words of hope,
holding tight to those beside you, loved ones, strangers, brief moments
as beneath the ground you hide like moles,
brushing away ash like snow from barethread clothes
whilst above the streets are burning
and leaders sing out of tune.
Through all this destruction and conflict the world breathes in and out,
the walls go up
the walls come down
roads are blocked with citizens of lost countries,
baggage of the refugees scattered,
trafficking of tortured souls.
Check-point Charlie's or under the wire,
off the radar rowing across vast oceans in your pea-green boats
the owls and the pussy cats flee to safer lands.
Through the many miles, the sleepless nights and starving days
begging for loose change,
the haves and the have not clash outside the gates of Salvation.
Not satisfied with destroying this world we try to reach the shooting stars
and invade what lies beyond,
dragging our history behind us as we go boldly,
we come in war and take what's yours.
And through it all
this madness, the pressing of our self destruction buttons,
the noise, the hatred, fears
I can hear the blackbird sing
clear and pure, sweet peace
Mary-Jane
Stevenage Survivors and Poetry as Healing
The Shop Boy
Fear explodes all around,
you can smell the dread hanging in the dawn air
waiting in line, sweating in the November mist,
you wipe your face upon the once clean uniform sleeve.
The man beside you grins reassuringly,
"stick with me son, you won't go wrong"
this older man, this boy, no more than 18
you recognise him from the corner shop back home,
the owner's son, the shop boy,
a bag of boiled sweets in hand he offers you one,
" helps take that nasty taste away"
You suck upon a lemon bon-bon,
an explosion of sweet and sour explodes in your mouth,
you close your eyes drifting back to Summer days of childhood,
the scent of freshness, hay warming in the sun, giggling
running with your sisters amongst the sheets of white hanging to dry,
your mother playfully scolds then joins the game
your father watching on laughing, is it him whistling now?
With a rush you're back standing in line in squealching mud,
the sergeant blows his whistle pushing each man up the rickerty ladder and over the top.
And here you are upon this hell on earth,
rooted to the spot in fear within this muddy sea of Devil's chaos,
confusion, panick,
snarred like rabbits caught amongst barbed wire
wildly thrashing limbs and heads
blinded by the flashes in the sulphur skies,
the thunderous roar of the big guns,
the golden bullets whizzing past.
And the screaming of the dying, why won't they just die?
death is all about,
the smell of blood is in your nostrils
the taste of bile in your throat,
a sudden thud and a burning sensation across your back,
your father swings you around then throws you up in the sunlight,
falling, falling to land beside the dying shop boy,
God how he cries and you can not help to ease the pain,
there is nothing you can do but reach his hand
as he calls for his mother to come and save her man-child,
you can not help him except sing softly to ease your own death.
Tears running over flecks of blood and spittle,
you try to wipe your face with the knitted scarf about your neck,
and scattered in the field
a trail of yellow bon-bons like dandelions.
Mary-Jane
Stevenage Survivors, Poetry as Healing
Peaceful Connotations
No matter where politics take us
It doesn’t matter where
People who find Peace
Shut the world away
But then all over the globe
There are riots, fighting to keep the peace
Brexit, another political stance
Debates over and over
Food getting higher and higher in price
Sometimes preventing food for little ones
Parents, humans, animals
The government fight their true fight
But what of the people, who need Peace, happiness
And less poverty
It’s all very well crying
The economy is needed
But so do people
Families to be held together
We are all born with nothing
We go out with nothing
It is so vital to the understanding of minds
Peace is what we need
Not fear, conflict fighting -
But each country needs the truth of the matter.
Support our people, one to the other
Try not to let political governments
Fight out sanity..
(C) Josie Lawson All Rights Reserved 14/12/2018
GROW
Me In The War
When I was in the war. When I fired my gun. Boom, boom, boom!
It made me feel shocked when the war begun.
Flower (age 6)
Stalemate
Introduction
Charles Hamilton Sorley was born in Aberdeen on 19 May 1895, son of William Ritchie Sorley, a professor at Aberdeen University, and his wife Janetta. Charles had a twin brother, Kenneth, whom he would always be close to. The family moved to Cambridge when he was five.
Charles attended King’s College Choir School, then Marlborough College, where he won prizes for English and Public Reading. In 1913, he gained a scholarship to University College, Oxford, but prior to taking this up went to Germany to study the language and culture. Upon the outbreak of World War I, he was interned in Trier but released after one night and told to leave the country.
Despite his affection and admiration for the German people, he enlisted with the Seventh Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. He arrived in France as a Lieutenant in May 1915 and was quickly promoted to Captain. He fell whilst leading his men at the Battle of Loos on 13 October 1915, shot in the head by a sniper. He was just 20 years old.
Thirty-seven complete poems were found in his kit following his death, and in 1916 a posthumous collection, Marlborough and Other Poems, was published to great acclaim.
On 11 November 1985, Charles Hamilton Sorley was one of sixteen First World War poets commemorated on a slate stone unveiled in Poets’ Corner, Westminster Abbey.
***
Haibun
Gas, smoke, the thunder-rush of shells.
The eagle-eyes of the sniper miss nothing. A brave son of the Fatherland, we’ll call him Fritz.
Mid-afternoon, the British are through the wire and at the trench now, bayonets flashing. And leading with his pistol is an officer…
Captain Charles Sorley of the Suffolks is another brave man, a man with Germany in his heart yet ready to die for England.
Camouflaged, concealed, Fritz levels his rifle. Will he be haunted by that face, by a momentary impression of dutiful youth and kinship?
Here is the cheerful chatterbox kid who loved beachcombing with his twin-brother. Here, the Marlborough College student who loved running in the rain and excelled in debate; the young man of social conscience who worried about the poor, who travelled Germany, even felt himself German, and was entertained in his lodgings by a half-tame squirrel. Here is Sorley the unsentimental, truthful poet of the war.
Not that Fritz knows any of this as gently he squeezes the trigger and adds another to his tally. Tomorrow the battle will end in stalemate.
***
Charles Hamilton Sorley,
dead at twenty,
body never recovered,
poetry never forgotten.
Paul Beech
First published in LARK SKIES, Cestrian Press, 2015
RUBY
The thump of the big gun rolls away, the two-minute silence begun. Just a gull or two calling distantly. And there she is, waiting in memory: a woman never quite met, face never quite glimpsed, only her withered, liver-spotted hand, like a claw. I never knew her name but thought of her as Ruby. I knew only this: that she was one of those brave British agents dropped into occupied France to work with the Marquis in the run-up to D-Day. Her room in the nursing home was always dark, door ajar, music most sombre on low. Occasionally I’d hear her cough. The big gun sounds again: it’s over.
between bugle calls
their spirits rise in glory
our boys, our girls
Paul Beech
First published in Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senryu, Volume 2, Issue 23, November 2017
'A Poets Day'
Five poems written and read by Maureen Weldon on 'A Poets Day' Sunday 4th November 2018 at Oswestry School on the anniversary Wilfred Owen was killed 100 years ago.
Thomas Kettle. 1880 – 1916
How can I write about you
Thomas Kettle, of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers,
when I was not there to share that hell
you lived in?
I was not there to hear the whiz-bangs
nor the deafening boom of enormous guns;
see the yellow poisoned wind
blind your men and shrapnel rip their flesh,
or the wriggling bodies caught in the cruel teeth
of barbed wire.
How can I write about you Thomas Kettle,
Son of Ireland friend of Parnell fighting for freedom
wearing the uniform of the British Crown?
I was not there
three days before you died,
when you wrote your poem
for your baby daughter
red-eyed rats scampering in the quagmire,
you propped against wet sandbags.
I did not see you blown to smithereens
with no part left to bury.
Yet in Saint Stephen’s Green you are honoured,
your handsome face carved in stone;
and at first light, birds sound your reveille.
Brave Son of Ireland
your sacrifice was not in vain.
Maureen Weldon
First Published LARK SKIES Cestrain Press 2015
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
El Alamein 1942
They came one by one
El Alamein - the khaki inferno,
of smoke, oil and yellow tongues.
For every one that lived
two comrades died.
Now a million ghosts move silently
buried in the ever moving sand,
or talk in old men’s dreams.
Maureen Weldon
Published by The Sons of Camus, International Journal
Published by Ink Sweat & Tears
Published in, Through a Child’s Eyes, Poems From WW2. Poetry Space 2013
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Liverpool To Dublin : 1943
The girl knelt on her bunk – looking
just looking at the white frothy waves.
The ship’s wash, she had been told,
as the ship zigzagged -
zigzagging to cross the Irish Sea.
Go to sleep, said her mother
with a kiss. And slipped away.
The ship swayed
on the deep, deep sea,
engine singing its engine song.
Suddenly doors were slamming
hurried feet running;
U-boat under our ship, she heard them say.
Torpedoes. Hush. Quiet. Be calm.
Her mother returned.
It will be alright, my darling.
In her hand one lifejacket.
No lifejackets for a little child.
A kind priest was with her mother.
I am a good swimmer,
I will look after her.
All was quiet
not even the engine sang its song,
just the bump, flump, bump of the waves.
And another sound, not a loud sound,
a sort of, blub, blub, blub, coming up
from the deep, deep sea.
The U-boat, from underneath us,
said the priest to her mother.
She saw them whisper a prayer.
It was a dark October night.
A chilly night.
No small green-shaded lamp
in their cabin.
No lights at all.
Sleep, my little one, her mother said.
The girl woke up.
The ship’s engine was singing its song.
She saw it was morning
a grey and silvery morning.
Her mother lying beside her.
The kind priest - gone.
The ship gave three loud hoots.
Thank God. Thank God, her mother said.
And a huge cheer
was all over the ship.
Maureen Weldon
‘Liverpool to Dublin 1943’ won 3rd prize The Bards 2012 Competition
Published by The Coffee House Literary Poetry Magazine
Included with her ten poems, and featured by Jim Bennett Editor of Caught in The Net, The Poetry Kit. 2013
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
UK : 1943
They sat in the train – mother and small daughter,
the daughter a tiny child.
And all the soldiers, chattering, smoking, laughing.
How comfy the child was, how comfy and safe,
she hummed a safe tune, her ear pressed just below
the window – so she could hear a choir.
This was the night-train. They
were to spend time with her father;
brave soldier – on leave.
But for this night in 1943, the train sat, delayed –
delayed for a long, long time. Hiding –
hiding from jerry bombs, she heard them say.
And the black blinds on every window –
pulled down. And everyone whispering, while she
the tiny child sat safely on her mother’s knee.
Until, chu chu, chu chu, chu chu … the music
of the train. In the morning light, she watched
the high smoke, like a long lamb’s tail, puffing past.
(Jerry bombs / German Bombs)
Maureen Weldon
First published by Poetry Scotland 2011
Published in, Through A Child’s Eyes, Poems From World Two Anthology 2013
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
The Empty City
No City, just rubble.
Soldiers in black play hide-and-seek,
We are East, West, North, South, they shout.
So we packed him away, our precious boy,
our precious child; packed him away
for a better life in a better place.
No city, just rubble.
and me an old lady, a widow wrapped in weeds,
wrapped in tears.
Daughter, daughter sit by my side.
‘Where are they mother?’
Walking, walking. Gone all gone.
Maureen Weldon
Published Summer 2016 by Lifejacket. Proceeds for Liverpool refugees.
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
From War To Peace
(A poem dedicated to refugees and asylum seekers)
Noise resounds – pounding within my head.
Brian ready to explode through agonising pain.
Yet, I am closely linked to all who suffer here;
we share the chaos that we all disdain.
Planes overhead – targets fixed and in the horror,
bloodshed, and smells to evil to compare’
Yet here, a light – a candlelight of hope
flickers within my soul and leads me into prayer.
I wonder; could there be a mystic way –
a pathway through this jungle of despair,
where I may rise on eagles wings and leave
my country torn by war where farms lay bare.
In England Now
Here am I, in England now – within another world.
The fields are velvet green, not bare,
and every wildflower speaks of Heaven here;
a tranquil place where I hope to repair.
Yet, safe within this pleasant land, I see through
clearer eyes within my mind laid eminently bare,
intrusive mental pictures of horrors left behind,
revealing every tortuous nightmare.
I view again the courage in a land enduring pain
and sense again the loving warmth of hearts,
that knit us all together in fraternity,
with bonds no-one on earth could pull apart.
But now alone, I must reclaim the fragments of my life
and piece together pieces collected out of strife.
My soul had longed to be set free from war and deprivation
But here, within this peaceful land, I sense my isolation.
Judith Booker – Chirk Writers Circle
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Poetry Slam - Whittington C of E Primary school
Christmas Wartime
Christmas day in the trenches of France, no
gunfire, just the message dogs and their humans
walking around all the dead corpses.
It was cold, misty and not very enjoyable, but
then a German climbed out of their trench
surrendering to us.
Someone kicked a ball out of the trench.
Before they knew it they’d started a game of football.
With sandbags as goal posts, and no weapons
used, near to the end of the day the German
Captain headed the ball – forgetting he had a spike on his hat
and burst the ball!
After that they heard a bang and went straight back to fighting.
Bomber planes dropping shells, crushing anything in their paths.
You could hear the engines of jeeps ready to fire
their machine guns.
Everyone who went over the top instantly died.
This was a very hard time.
by Oliver (Whittington C of E Primary School)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
The Robin’s War
I saw today a Robin
On Christmas day
It was stuck
Out there
On No-man’s land.
I looked at it
Feeling sorry
For it
And all the other animals like him.
Would I do the good thing?
The brave thing
Or should I do the safe thing?
The cowardly thing.
I decided to do the good
Thing, the brave thing.
So slowly and quietly
I climbed out of the trench.
Those German’s shouted
And grabbed their rifles
I quickly put my hands up.
And behind me they shouted
‘No Jim don’t do it’
But I ignored them.
My heart was skipping beats as
I walked over to the
Robin and with my
Knife, cut him free.
by William (Whittington C of E Primary School)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Christmas At War
Christmas at war.
Only not.
There’s no guns blazing.
No shells whistling through the air.
No screams of death.
Just silence, nothing but silence.
Then a shout across from No-man’s land.
A glimpse of white.
A flag.
There’s a German wandering across No-man’s land with aflag.
He’s got a ball.
A football.
I can tell by the brownness of it.
‘Come and play’ he shouts across No-man’s land.
Then I find myself dragging up the bank and on to No-man’s land.
I wasn’t even thinking about it.
He passes the ball to me.
I pass it back.
Then suddenly I hear a thundering behind me and the,
Next thing I know is, we’re playing a proper game!
It was the best day of my life.
But then we hear the other lines fighting.
We all pick up our guns and walk back to our trenches .
And we smell the rats and the gas and the smoke.
And we feel the lice and the dirt.
And we hear the explosion of bombs.
And we see the barbed wire spiky and ridged.
And I don’t see the point of playing a great game,
Of football, if we’re just going to fight,
Straight afterwards.
by Harvey (Whittington C of E Primary School)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Christmas Night
The night of Christmas day,
The sound fading away,
No-one upon No-man’s land,
Condensation in the air,
Sometimes I think it’s just not fair,
The moon hung in the sky,
As the last person screams, and dies.
I dream about being home,
And in safety of not being blown’
There’s not a lot of food here,
Not like at the pier,
The explosions almost hurt,
And so does the dirt,
I just want to be there,
And not exploding everywhere!
by Miles (Whittington C of E Primary School)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Other class poems from Welshampton C of E
The Bloodiest Battle Fought Yet
The bloodiest battle fought yet.
I am so close to death.
My match is nearly met!
As I try to crawl No-man’s land, back to my temporary muddy home.
The bloodiest battle fought yet,
I need shelter! I need warmth!
Please Lord protect me from this war,
As I lie here my thoughts start to fade,
Before I drift into an unconscious slumber in a soggy No-man’s land.
The bloodiest battle thought yet,
As I wake, I lie now back in my trench.
I hear rumbling like thunder, my mind snaps into gear,
It was not thunder, but a tank I could hear.
As I looked far away the tank was moving away,
But also it was quiet...too quiet!
I looked around, and this is what I see
Why is everyone lying dead?
As I look out across No-man’s land,
This war is over, as far as I can see!
By Cai (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
I Will Always Remember That Day...
I will always remember that day,
When I was brave enough to fly a Bristol,
I will always remember that day,
When I first held my own pistol.
I will always remember that day,
When my friend got shot down.
I will always remember that day,
When he smiled a little frown.
I will always remember that day,
When I was brave, fearless and young to start the war.
I will always remember that day,
When my friends arm got so sore.
I will always remember that day,
When I was classed as a famous Ace.
I will always remember that day,
When I was in a plane.
by Courtney (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
As I Hold My Gun
As I hold my gun with fear,
The planes pass over my head.
As the ‘Roundel’s’ tell me which planes are ours,
I know which planes to shoot.
As the brave young men sit in their cockpit,
Dodging every type of gun!
As I hold my gun with fear,
The Germans creep towards us.
I load up my gun,
I stand nice and firm.
With my gun in my hands,
But then bang – I get shot.
One of the soldiers gave me morphine to help stop the pain,
Now we’re the best of friends!
As I hold my gun in fear,
I sit within this tank.
The loudness strikes again and again,
With my mates in front of me,
And some driving the ammo truck.
by Dylan (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
As I Sit Within This Land
As I sit within this mud
I hear men screaming
and guns firing
My heart begins to pound.
As I sit within this mud
With shells flying over head
Grenades exploding
I’m prepared to die.
As I sit within this mud
I’ve nothing left to lose
I know this is the end
The time has come...
by Evan (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
I Can Remember That Day
I can remember that day,
I prayed and prayed
I No-man’s land, there I lay,
I can hear my friends say “Hey!”
I live to fight another day.
I can remember that day,
My friends say “Hey!”
I fought that other day,
Oh, it was a great shame,
There I lay.
I can remember that horrible day.
There I lay...There I lay...
Scarred and bruised,
Shot by the Bosche and their horrible Whizz-bang.
I said to myself by – “Bye, please let me die,”
And take me away, upon on high.
by Felix (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
As I Walk Towards This Plane
As I walk towards this plane,
Me and my brother say, “Farewell,”
To our family and friends,
Who think that we might die.
As I sit in this plane,
I hope to live another day.
Me and my bro, side by side,
Together always
As I fly this plane,
Through the crowded sky.
I spot a Bosche plane,
So we fly high.
As I Ace this plane,
I become a ‘pop-star’ of the skies.
“I’m still alive!” I yell,
But my bro sadly died!
As I land this plane,
An enemy spots me.
I get my gun ready,
But he got me first.
As I lie in No-man’s land,
I worry about my family and friends.
Then my life flashes before my eyes.
I’m dead! I am dead!
by Holly (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
The Gas Attack
The lethal gas is all around me.
I don’t know how long I will last?
I sit in my dug out bed, with rats all around me.
People are dying. I don’t know what I should do?
So I put on my gas mask and head out.
The lethal gas is all around me.
I have to find another trench that is two miles,
Away before I get shot.
The lethal gas is all around me.
I find another trench of Tommy’s and,
They let me in.
There is no lethal gas all around me.
I have escaped it for now.
Oh, is that a Bosche with a gun...?
by James (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Each Day Is New, In The War
Each day is new, in the war
As I say goodbye to my family and friends,
I wonder if I’ll survive the war?
And I think they wonder it too.
Each day is new, in the war,
At dawn and dusk each day,
I stand waiting in the trench for a surprise attack,
Like other brave, but fearful men.
Each day is new, in the war,
Boom! Boom! I’ve waited for a surprise attack,
“Attack men, ATTACK!”
POW! POW! goes my gun.
The attack is over but we still have more ferocious battles to fight.
Each day is new, in the war,
As I’m lying in my muddy, manky dug-out-bed, I find I have a case of
Trench-foot on my wet, stinky, grubby, bloody feet.
As I lie, I think about the day in the trench: I’ve had with the rats
And soldiers.
Each day is new, in the war.
Lying in my dug-out-bed, I hear a call go out,
“Night men, same again tomorrow,”
I can’t help wonder if I’ll survive this war.
Looking around there are dead bodies, blood spilt everywhere, and rats
Feasting in the trenches.
by Isabelle (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
God, Look After My Children, Please, Just For Another Day
It goes on and on,
Whenever will they stop?
Bang! Bang!
Shoot! Shoot!
Mud, mud everywhere.
Guns firing,
Bullets in the air.
Pain! Pain!
One more day.
Emotionally, I have to say
God, look after my children
Please, just for another day.
by Jessica (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Life In The Trenches
As I see my allies in Shell Shock,
The war seems as if it all stops,
Suddenly I see the Bosche’s tanks and planes,
I pick up my dreaded gun and bayonet,
I have flash back of my family!
As I watch the Bosche fly by,
I crawl along these bloody grounds!
I see my friend being hit, I run towards him,
My heart pounding!
I see the sun, my only hope,
Such a horrible place to be.
As the seasons start to change,
I get hit, I worry I will die,
As I see my fellow men with their bayonets,
I see nurses rush towards me,
I guess the war’s over for me,
I glance across the sea once more!
by Jacob (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
At Dawn And Dusk Each Day
At dawn and dusk each day,
The Great War begins.
As I run for my life,
A lad offers me a few gins!
At dawn and dusk each day,
I rise before my fellow men.
I am shooting across the battle field,
That sound again and again!
At dawn and dusk each day,
I hear all the dreaded cries.
My mate pretends to be dead,
For he doesn’t want to die!
At dawn and dusk each day,
Everyone’s dead on fighting grounds.
I have saved my country,
For I am the only one that stands!
At dawn and dusk each day,
The beautiful poppies grow.
They are blood red and filled with love,
Between the crosses, row on row.
by Jess (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Up, Two, Three, Four
Life in the War
Up, two, three, four
As I march to war
Five, six, seven, eight
Marching to my trench, it’s getting late.
Up, two, three, four
The sun peeks it’s head above the trench.
With a spade I build and repair
My muddy, roofless home.
Up, two, three, four
My khaki uniform ripped and wet
Will the war ever stop?
My sodden black boots rotting my feet.
Up, two, three, four
Oh! The pain as I think of my loving family,
Hoping they’re proud of me.
In the war I hear guns and bombs, and I wonder who is dead?
Up, two, three, four
Each day getting ready for war
Armed with guns, grenades and bayonets
Hoping I don’t die. I hear my fellow men cry.
Oh! How I miss my family
As I watch the war go on and on and on.
by Kate (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
I Sit In This Trench
I sit in this trench
I sit in this trench,
Scared to death,
Worrying what will happen next?
I don’t want to die like this,
I mean, would you?
I sit in this trench,
Thinking about all my other friends, fighting in this war,
The ones who are, ‘Oh so sore.’
The blood they bleed, day and night,
It must be quite a fright.
I sit in this trench,
Oh why can’t all countries just be friends?
So then this dreadful war could end.
I hear the cries of other brave, young men,
Being hit in this muddy trench.
I dread to think it may be me next...
by Lettie (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
WW1 Poem
Lying in my uncomfortable, dug-out bed,
I smell the other young soldiers sweat.
I read my letters from my long-lost home,
I hear the sick ones awful moan.
Lying in my uncomfortable, dug-out bed,
I taste the nasty condensed milk,
The appalling corned beef, straight out of the tin,
And the revolting ‘Dog’s Vomit’ really tinned stew?
It couldn’t have b’in.
Lying in my uncomfortable, dug-out bed,
I look up, above my head.
Planes, I see way up there,
Flying around in the air.
Lying in my uncomfortable, dug-out bed,
I hear the call:
‘Fire, Fire!’ It’s my time to go over the top,
This might be my downfall.
by Mia (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
I Remember The Day
I remember the day, I shot my friend
and the blood was not pretend!
I remember the day, I had my first dogfight,
soaring in grey, enemy skies.
I remember the day, I left my beloved kids,
Just to go and fight the Great War.
I remember the day, I got my first flight badge.
I got my one and only Ace.
Now I am on the ground thinking about my life.
by Millie (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Getting Ready To Take Off
Getting ready to take off.
Getting ready to fly,
Getting ready to destroy
Preparing to die.
Getting into my Sopwith Camel,
Getting out to fix my control panel.
Taking off into the skies,
I can’t believe it, my plane actually flies.
After my Sopwith Camel crashed,
I am running for my life,
because that man had a knife.
I got my gun from my back,
And everything, everywhere went black.
I knew I could not kill him –
he was a brother, just from another mother.
by Tyler (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Remembrance Day
On Remembrance Day,
I think what it would be like – cold, damp and wet,
In the trenches,
As they fought brave an hard.
On Remembrance Day,
I think what it would be like to fly in the dark, grey sky
And suggested only eleven days of life as a pilot,
As you shot down German planes.
On Remembrance Day,
I think what it would be like in the trenches,
With your friends worrying about your,
Children and your darling wife,
Wondering when the wars over.
On Remembrance Day,
I think what the war was like,
And all those lost souls.
Rest in Peace
by Ollie (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
As I Save The Brave Young Men
As I save the brave young men,
My life is put at risk,
Across the bloody battle field I go,
Across the dangerous No-man’s land.
As I save the brave young men,
And go through poisons gas,
‘I have to save them,’ I tell myself,
To help them win this war.
As I save the brave young men,
I pray to the powerful GOD,
‘Lord help me find the injured Brits,
And protect me from this war.
by Poppy (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
As They Run To Me
As they run to me,
I stare at the grey sky as planes go by!
As they run to me,
I run towards the sworn enemy.
As they run to me,
I cry that I could die!
As they run to me,
I lie in No-man’s land and wish this is just a dream.
As they run to me,
I run across the bloody field putting my life at risk!
I pray to Lord once more to protect my darling wife and kids.
Then there was a BANG!
I didn’t see no more.
by Ruby (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
How I Miss My Family
I march into battle - terrified,
Thinking are they watching me from the skies?
I wish to be in front of the fire with a hot cup of tea.
How I miss my family.
I have been assigned to a dangerous night raid,
Although it’s my first week,
Few men come back, so I’m afraid,
How I miss my family.
Back from the raid, I pray please protect my child and wife
I don’t want them to lose their precious life,
And then I pray, please protect me,
How I miss my family.
For now it’s over,
I get to go home on Leave,
For the first time in this horrible war,
I get to see my family!
by Seren (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Remember The War
As I arm my weapon in the sky,
My bones are weak and I feel stone dry.
I miss my friends and family so much,
I don’t think I can fight anymore.
I know I am a brave soldier and that is true,
I hope someone will believe in me too.
As I arm my weapon in the sky,
I see all the bi-planes go by and by, with all their might,
I see the enemy getting ready to aim,
I really hope they miss again!
I am fighting for my life, right here and now,
I hope my family are really proud.
As I lay here on the ground,
All alone by myself, I want to fight one more time,
But shortly I might die.
I hope I stay in peace, to see all the red poppies grow and grow,
I know, I must go,
My life is not in pain, but I know that it’s a shame.
by Sophia (Welshampton C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival
Poetry Slam - Senior Schools - Oswestry School
Fear
The bullet flies fast and straight.
Ripping through bone and flesh.
There in the field a man falls.
There in the field he lives forever more.
This is a bullet, designed to kill.
But yet not feared.
Fear is not for the shells falling all around.
Nor is there the terror of gas.
The fear is not in the field.
But in the thought of home,
And the ones they love.
Their fear is of what they left,
And what they may not come back to.
The worry for their loved ones.
The worry of a collapsed home,
And a hole in the heart.
Fear for life is still there
But a different life.
Many have given up,
Many lay cold.
And death is always close.
But closer still is love:
Their love is still there,
And strong.
by Billy Mcintyre
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
The Bomb
The siren had sounded, the raid had begun,
The sky seemed to cloud the planes overhead.
I threw on my gas mask, took hold of my son,
Out of the house to the shelter we fled.
We heard the bombs blow, again and again,
I grabbed hold of his hand and whisper near:
“Please don’t fret, it will be alright Ben”,
But with all the noise, he could scarcely hear.
And suddenly, without warning, all hell broke loose,
It came down with a crash and went through the roof,
Ben rushed to the door of our back garden dome,
To find a bomb, through the roof of our home.
I look back today and remember,
When my son ran into this house,
Everywhere trailing with ember.
But look closely, look really hard,
And you might see, the same as me:
The body of my son, all mangled and charred.
by Alex Iskauskas
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
War Trauma
I’m stuck here in the dirt,
Corpses fallen all around me;
My body and my heart is hurt
The battle getting ugly.
They die here today
Fallen in a worthless fight
Unable to stand and stay
Or end this awful plight.
I feel so useless standing here,
Hiding in the trenches,
While men on the front line disappear
And God’s hand to them stretches.
Even upon the armistice
My soul is not at rest
For soldiers I fought with still I miss -
their deaths a tempest.
At night I lie in bed,
My head stuck in a reverie,
The longing I feel burning red:
I’m isolated by anxiety
My daughter’s hand is gone, clean gone
I rush into her bedroom.
I thought the man with bullets won
But it’s just another dream.
I can’t take it anymore;
I’m heading for the knife.
I must be with the ones I lost
And so I take my life.
By Abigail Ellis-Lowe
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Poetry Slam - Senior Schools - The Marches School
My WW1 Poem
What is a poppy?
Where do they grow?
Why are they growing?
Does Everyone know?
In Flanders Fields,
Where soldiers fell,
Poppies now grow,
With stories to tell.
Each eleventh of November,
The youth do remember,
The sacrifice and loss,
of each family member.
We should never forget,
The pain of regret,
Of sending the youth,
to their early death.
Lucy Lee (Whittaker)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
It’s Not So...
It’s not so ‘fun’ anymore,
The horrific idea of war,
When soldiers sprint out to fight,
Fight for what they’re told is right,
But fall before reaching the other side,
Their bodies and bullets collide,
They did it for us and their countries,
Don’t want to disappoint us and their countries,
When blood stains cover the floor,
They’ve realised... It’s not so ‘fun’ anymore.
Jessie Shaw – (Bonnington)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
When Will It End
Gun’s a blazin’,
Children screaming,
Cows a’ grazing,
Sirens bleeping.
‘Twas a night in the city,
and all through the town,
parents are panicking,
bombs being dropped down.
Whilst out in the country,
all is calm,
tis safe and clear,
“I’m an evacuee, sent here by me ma’am”.
When will it end?
Families destroyed, soldiers are dying,
the war is pointless,
everyone stopped trying.
Angel Kendrick (Mallory)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
The Marches did their submissions as 'house competitions'
Poetry Slam - Bellan House (Oswestry School)
Nothing
Rare, bare landscape,
A shallow remain
Of what was once beautiful, blossoming trees.
Everything at peace,
The very opposite of what destroyed it.
Oncoming evil tore the place apart as it tore
So many people apart.
The deep haunting trenches,
A constant reminder
Of the people who had to die
For us to stand here today.
The place, for years has been forgotten,
Like a different world.
A place that was destroyed
By corruption.
As you stand there, you feel
A strong surge of anger, too complicated to explain,
You hear echoes of pain,
Poor, poor men dying
For some non-existent cause.
By James (Bellan House)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
From The Other Side
BOOM!!
Shells exploding all around.
They were killing us,
They were as bad as us.
BANG!!
My best friend… dead.
Then, as we were almost all dead,
We charged.
And more die…..
A gas bomb
I saw men choking
Then they die
We looked around
We were in No Man's Land
I fall to the floor in pain
Shot
Then darkness came.
I’m only 19
I had a life
You think I’m bad just because I’m……
From the other side…
By Ted (Bellan House)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
War And Peace
Skylarks fly over
Soldiers’ heads.
Poppies planted,
Purple, white and red.
Some of the soldiers
Liked to write poems.
So today we remember
Wilfred Owen.
No Man’s Land
Between the trenches
Soldiers dates on
Memorial benches.
Gas bombs falling,
You need a gas mask!
“When will it end?”
The people ask.
Men who fought
Under the moon so full
Will be remembered always
And our hearts forever pull.
By James (Bellan House)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
The Life
The trench life
The shell life
The war life
The dead life
We thank those
Who had those
Lives
To give us
The good life
By Olivia (Bellan House)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Bellan - involved more of Year 5 children with choosing other readers for the poems
Poetry Slam - Bellan House (Oswestry School)
Football Poems!
As Bellan House runs a football academy, I asked them if they would like to submit 2 football poems for reading at the Poetry Slam - by girls! To mark the Womens 'Official' football teams formed in WW1 - which the government banned after the war! Till many years later when women once again allowed to play Professional Football! Google Women's Football WW1 for more fascinating info!
The girls were asked how they would feel to have their 'football playing' taken away!
One Decision
One decision shattered everything,
One decision ruined our joy,
One decision shattered everything,
One decision took away our toy.
One decision shattered everything,
One decision changed our lives.
One decision shattered everything,
One decision, our hope dies.
One decision shattered everything,
One decision took away our rights.
One decision shattered everything,
One decision made us fight.
One decision was wrong,
One decision made us strong.
One decision took away our dreams,
One decision was mean.
By Gabriella (Bellan House)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Hold On To Dreams
Hold on to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams fray,
Life is a football game
That has nowhere to play.
Hold strong you team,
For if you fail,
Your soul will be lost,
Don’t be frail!
Hold strong you women
Don’t dare give up,
For if you do,
The league ends with you.
By Holly (Bellan House)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Statue Poem - The Marches School
A Question of Numbers
Eleven’s a special number,
To all of those who fought.
To all of those who were left behind,
To those who always thought.
But what if it was different?
Eight, seven, six or five?
Would it still mean so much,
To all who cried and cried?
What if the silence didn’t happen?
Would lives still go on?
Would war still be happening?
Would people still have to run?
The wars will never be over,
The reign will still hold strong.
But what if it was a different number,
Perhaps the number one?
Millie Lloyd – The Marches School
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Statue Poem - Oswestry School
A Violent Meeting
Here and now, the field is silent,
Devoid of noise; there’s no hiding for me.
Sometimes, quiet is violent.
I find it hard to try to see
The way this war was once perceived,
Conceived; I no longer believe
In peace.
Now the void is filled with noise.
My friends are gone,
Their lungs will fill and then will scream,
Bereft of breath - a conclusion impending.
I hate this war that I’m fighting,
And there’s no happy ending
For me.
A blissful silence regains its strength,
For all the machines and guns have left.
The destruction we cannot conceal.
There is no distraction to mask what is real.
Where there were once many,
Few remain;
I sit and contemplate,
The lives we can’t reclaim.
I will never find peace,
My mind will scream,
Reminding me of what I’ve seen,
Of who I’ve killed,
Of what they’ve done.
There’s no hiding,
I hate this war I’m fighting.
James Law – Oswestry School
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Statue Poem - Lakelands Academy
A Soldier’s Voice
Aboard the train and off to war;
I don’t know what we’re fighting for.
All I know is my country needs me,
And I’m fighting for my family.
I’ve been here now for five long weeks;
The rain-soaked mud around my feet.
I can’t help feeling in such pain,
Wondering when I’ll see home again.
I wake to feel panic in my head.
What’s this? Am I alive or dead?
I look across to see soldiers like me,
With missing limbs or no eyes to see.
I try to move but my legs are still,
Why won’t they work at my will?
I see bloody bandages on my skin,
Hiding the shrapnel that lies within.
Home I go, back from this war;
With useless legs I can’t feel no more.
A chair with wheels now rules my life,
But I’ll be with my sweet, kind wife.
Georgia Edge Year 9 - Lakelands Academy
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Statue Poem - Moreton Hall
'Fall from White'
The mist brings me comfort,
the rain wakes me up,
the storms test my courage to fight on.
But the snow,
the snow brings something different:
it reveals vulnerability,
promises new beginnings.
White. I feel like paper,
defenceless to the match.
But during this cold time the fire isn’t likely,
and any thought of victory is in patient decay.
As if shaken from a net,
the delicate pieces of snow drop from the sky.
White falling from white.
One moment graceful, next moment dead.
In the little nooks of wire, the snow is gathering.
Nature is building her barricade.
Distant. I hear a gun.
Men jump to. Dumb, dirty fingers are numb, too numb to fumble
for the trigger of the gun.
Hermione Byron-Low - Moreton Hall
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Statue Poem - Derwen College
Derwen College is for students with Special Needs - and were invited to submit a poem for the statue - Iain Evans (and Rachael) worked with the students - talking about Wilfred Owen's life and war - they then chose 'words' before putting together in a poem - which moved everyone who read it! I was delighted for the four students who were able to come and read their poem on one of my events - 'A Poets Day'.
100 Years
One hundred years since Wilfred died,
Yet all his words are still alive.
Oswestry, born and raised,
He wrote about men and the lives they gave.
Teacher and soldier, a Cross received,
But his parents and siblings were left to grieve.
Those soldiers will not die in vain,No longer will they walk in the rain.
Wilfred died young in the First World War,
But his poems we’ll remember him for.
Derwen College Students
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Poetry Slam - Welshampton C of E
As the war draws on
As the war draws on,
In this muddy trench,
I think of my family,
Hoping they’re safe.
As the war draws on,
I hold the gun,
Shaking in fear,
I just hope I don’t die.
As the war draws on,
I pray to God for,
Courage and strength,
Is this really where I belong?
As I climb out of this bloody trench,
I have a flash back of my family,
I go into shell-shock,
When will it end?
As the war finishes,
Me and my brave allies lie in No-man’s Land,
I talk to my comrade one last time,
Is this really the end for me?
By Owen
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Fighting The War
Dug out trenches are what I can see,
I have to leave all the lice behind me,
Guns shoot! Shell shock!
Men are dying,
All fighting the War with me.
Swooping planes: Camels and Bristol’s,
Roundels or Crosses, painted full,
Bi-planes, dogfights,
Observation balloons,
All fighting the war with me.
Ammunition packed shops, big and small.
German Torpedo’s make us fall,
U-boats, big ships,
HMS Dreadnought,
All fighting the war with me.
Suffragettes – not in their campaign,
They work as nurses and the production lane,
Yellowing skin, headaches,
Doing their bit,
All fighting the war with me.
By Emily
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
As The Air War Grows In Size
As the air war grows in size,
More and more pilots patrol the skies.
Seeing my colleague just lying there,
I pray I get back to my lair.
As the air war grows in size,
More brave men die a cruel death.
As I watch a dogfight duel,
I swoop in and help my mate.
As the air war grows in size,
I finally pursue my only Ace,
Of Boche planes, nine before...now ten.
Oh no! I’ve been hit by a rotten Rumpler,
It’s all over! I’m going to have to jump!
As the air war grows in size,
I lie in the middle of nowhere,
After falling to an unpleasant death,
I dream, I think about my family hoping they’re safe.
By Will
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
BANG! BANG! BANG!
This war has started,
War has struck,
These deathly trenches!
Oh when will this war be over?
I pray to God,
I’m standing strong.
I want to be with my family,
Sitting by the fire drinking cups of tea.
Oh when will this war be over?
Out into battle,
Goodbye trench.
My nose is filled, with a deathly stench.
Oh when will this war be over?
One hundred years later,
People stand before us,
War is over.
By Lydia
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Footnote - Welshampton had a lot of Class 3 on stage - readings poems in groups.
Poetry Slam - Morda C of E
No Goodbyes, No Hello’s
It’s the day. No it can’t be, I’ll miss him
The stairs creak as I run down
“Is he still here?” Silence stills the room,
He’s gone and I didn’t say goodbye.
The post box rattles in the wind
There’s something in it
I can’t look!!!
It’s plain white with a red wax stamp,
With our address on it.
It’s a week after the war and now this letter
As it opens, it cripples me, my
Stomach ties in a knot.
IT CAN’T BE!!!
He’s gone. No, no I never said goodbye and
Now I can’t say hello, when they all come home.
by Rosie
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
WW1 – Terrifying Trenches
Racing through the dirt,
Slumping and hurt,
All the men are shooting,
Some of them are looting,
Just what does all this mean?
AHHHH! Quick men! BOMB!
Now all my friends are gone,
Our savage Generals,
Own many emeralds,
But they have no value here.
Living in mud,
Drowning in blood,
Infested with rats,
A busy job for our 500,000 cats,
This is the life for me.
Over 8,000,000 horses died in World War One,
And the cats work was never done,
The messenger dogs ran for their lives,
Whilst the messenger pigeons flew high in the skies,
Donkeys, mules and camels galloped across no-man’s land,
Carrying medicines and goodies for men’s hands. “Lest we forget”
by Abbie (Morda C of E)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
The First Casualty
He was on the floor bleeding out, whimpering
like a young child. He looked like a pigeon in a small cage.
The soldier looks up at me and explains
his pain in two words “save... me”.
His eyes flicker and then are drained of life. We flung him
on a stretcher hoping we could find a CCS.
The blood on the sandy beaches at Normandy almost
blocked out the yellow of the sand.
Bunkers flattened by artillery are still full, infected,
half-dead beggars looking for a second chance.
To whomever is reading, to whomever is listening,
the conflict, the war, the glory, all a distant lie
by Harrison Summer
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
A Soldier’s Story
When will we find peace?
When will we find laughter?
When will find love and kindness
To share with everyone?
Soldiers fight violently
Poppies stand silently
Gun shots ring out
I have no doubt
My death will soon be here,
I have no fear.
Feeling weak and ill
While soldiers fight and kill
The smell of blood is in the air,
can war ever be fair?
Here I now lie,
Alone to die.
When will we find peace?
When will we find laughter?
When will find love and kindness
To share with everyone?
Kate (with help from Jordon)
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
War Cry
We wander through dark, damp fields
Forcefully urging our way through long singed barley
Our suits itching from the fleas
Carrying disease from one person to another.
Shell Shock fills my brain with unspeakable hallucinations
And Flashbacks of my traumatic experience as a friend
And soldier.
We had to leave the trench behind us filled with,
Mangled old corpses of close friends.
We had to leave unstable survivors to drown,
In the sea of pale dead bodies.
We cry and weep, thinking about the consequences,
That we face. Waiting for the war to,
Come to a halt.
by Sam
Wilfred Owen Festival 2018
Footnote - Morda had a mix of individual and group readers
WW1 - Fictional Letters
My dearest Albie,
As I write these lines my darling, I am re-visiting our favourite place and I am settled under the old oak tree. I miss you my darling. Three months have now gone, I so anticipate your return, for the time has seemed like years. Every passing hour feels like days. I hold you dearly in my heart.
I have news my darling! I have been feeling rather under the weather and nausea would not cease to end. I visited Dr Smythe last Tuesday noon; we are with child my dearest Albie. I was astounded by the news, delighted and overwhelmed with such joy! Albie you will be a splendid father; our dream of a family is what lies ahead.
I do hope your return will be soon, as I flourish into motherhood.
I cannot help but notice, there has been no reply to my last two letters sent; I do hope you are in good health
I love you Albie; we love you;
Yours truly forever
Maisie
--------
My dearest darling Maisie
Today, my darling, I received not one , nor two but all three of your letters. I am so pleased you have not forgotten me, my love. I hold you deep inside my heart and long for the days you hold me in your arms once more.
Many Fond memories of our visits, walking the beautiful path along the river to the old oak; that is the very place I asked for your hand in marriage. You made me the happiest man with accepting and saying yes. Planning our lives together and having a family.
You did it Maisie, you made our wishes come true, a child of our own. How wonderful! you will be the most perfect mother. This is really what I needed, so uplifting. My body has been aching, tired, cold and hurting. How I want to see you, the days are long, drawn, dark and grey. Such drudgery and wet.
In receiving your wonderful news I feel a warmth inside; I can hold you both so dearly in my heart.
We have been moved several times to many destinations, everyday is a struggle, hardly no rest. Some have had gangrene, not me, not yet. I do hope I will not contract this; seeing other men in such pain is unbearable. Damp, gloom surrounds us here, the rain seems to go on for days, making our conditions more treacherous. Every day we long for this to end, to return to our loved ones, homes and families;
Not knowing tomorrow will always be hard; we have lost a few good men. Trying to rest; loud out there now. Men on watch, soaked through. I am so tired, my candle light is burning out slowly, The noise, is very close ;I doubt I can rest.
When dawn arises I will carry on with my letters to you; knowing I am not forgotten; that I will be a father and you Maisie are there, is all I need to get through this, even in these surroundings.
I lay here, thankful for you and the family you are giving me, with a tear of happiness trickling down my cheek. The thought of you Maisie keeps me alive.
It is getting so loud ... Goodnight for now... I love you..
Albert William Hall
Service Number 7465308
Killed in Action
Clair Sutton
WOW
Somewhere In France
September 1916
Captain Richard James.
My dear Elspeth
I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart
for your most recent letter. Unfortunately it takes quite
a time for our mail to reach us. We seem to be constantly
on the move. and I must admit to completely losing track
of time days roll into nights, with so little sleep and the
constant noise of shell fire ringing in my ears it is very
hard to keep ones sanity.
My life with you and our children could almost become
a fading memory. My little treasures of your letters which
I keep safe ,gives me such comfort.
My love to you always
Richard.
----
Russell Square
London
October 1916
My darling Richard.
I was very saddened to receive your last letter. It is so upsetting for us at home to have any comprehension as to what you are all going through. I decided as a little treat to take the myself and the children on a trip to Knightsbridge; you know how much Leonard and Rosie love the toy department in Harrods, though I must say the stocks are a little depleted now. Mind you the window displays are still wonderful and I was so pleased to see one of the windows have been dedicated to our brave men and two large Union Jack’s are hung above the entrance. How fortunate that I visited that day; as when we entered, a photographer had been placed on the ground floor.
And I recalled in your letter, that you are finding our faces are fading from your memory, this was such a wonderful opportunity, so I hope the photograph I have enclosed will bring you joy and that you will keep it close to your heart.
Be brave my darling. Love as always.
Elspeth
Pauline Faulkner
WOW
WW1 - Fictional Letters
Dearest Howard,
How are you my darling? We are all well and think of you all the time. I am sending you some socks I knitted, please try and keep warm and dry.
The farm is going well. I was a bit worried about the lower pasture but Archie from over the way says it will be fine with a sprinkling of rain which is forecast.
Little Howard is working really hard and has decided he is now the man of the family. He has even taken to wearing your old farm boots, you would smile my darling at the sight of him stomping across the field in your oversize boots.
I know you have enough to worry about but I must tell you something. I overheard little Howard talking to his friends, saying how they want to join their fathers in the fight for King and country. They are planning to lie about their ages in order to enlist. I am so worried darling, he's only 14 years old and although 6 feet tall is still but a child. Please write to him to dissuade him. I cannot worry about him as well as you my precious one. I need him here, I need them all here.
The other children are behaving well. Robert runs about trying to keep up with his older brother but at 9 isn't strong enough yet. The others are all playing their parts. I am so relieved that the arguing and fighting of last year has abated as we all pull together to keep the farm going. I am learning more and more every day and now have quite big muscles. The weather has been kind and the kids are as brown as berries. They are more or less keeping up with their schooling. Although the older boys are at school less and less as the farm work increases.
I miss you so much. Sometimes I think I hear your voice or see you across the fields. The other night I put your dinner out before I remembered that you are so far away. You are so brave my darling and I long with all my heart for that moment when you walk through the door and fall straight into my arms.
Keep safe my darling man
Your loving wife Linda xxxxx
Jaine Daley
WOW
22nd Cheshire Regiment
France
5th November 1914
Dear Mum and Dad
We have been training at Aldershot for weeks. It was the same day after day, marching from morning `till night being shouted at by the sergeant. It is a relief that we are at last on our way to the front. I am with Bert and Jim from the dockyard and it seems like a bit of a holiday to be going over seas in a ship, so our spirits are high. We can`t wait to get into the action and to fight Jerry. We need to get this over with then we can get back to our homes. We can hear the rumble of the guns, from where we are in France, and my stomach sometimes turns when I think what we will have to do.
Keep feeding the chickens so that we should have a fat one for Christmas dinner. The food here is not a patch on your cooking, mum, and I long for a Sunday roast. If you write could you send me more socks and a pair of gloves as the weather has turned quite cold and perhaps you could send some cigarettes as everyone is looking for a decent smoke.
Well, terrah for now. Look after yourselves and we should be home before you know it. This war can`t last for long.
`Till next time then.
Your loving son
Alf
------
Mr and Mrs J Lovatt
89 Spring Gardens
Runcorn
Cheshire
4th January 1915
Dear Alf
It was lovely to receive your letter which was delayed and came just after Christmas. We missed you at the dinner table for our festive lunch and we laid a place for you so that we could remember happier times. Dad killed a chicken that we had fattened up and we remembered absent friends.
I worry about you all the time and hope that you have survived your first visit to the front. I enclose gloves, socks and cigarettes as requested by you.
Your Uncle John is working at the gas factory on the island in the middle of the river and this is a place that we can no longer go to as it is guarded by soldiers. When the tankers full of gas go through the streets of the town, to be taken to the docks, the streets are closed so that the people can avoid the danger.
I am thinking of volunteering at the local cottage hospital as they are very short staffed but your dad thinks my place is at home but if things get any worse I will go anyway.
Anyway, keep your self as much as you can out of harms way. Don`t go volunteering to do anything too dangerous and look after yourself.
Come home soon as we all miss you.
Love
Mum and Dad
Eileen Wiggins – Chirk Writers Circle
WW1 - Fictional Letters
Dearest Esme.
I do not know when this war will end, and as I write I don’t know when I will finish this letter.
Lying down here in a cramped position, waiting for the enemy to make their move all is quiet and has been for two weeks, quite frankly we have given up, bored and hungry and wanting it to end.
John lies low next to me in this trench, gun at the ready, and although we are scared of what might be, we dare not move, but bursting for the latrine which is a few feet away at the edge of the forest I am going to take a chance, as I am on the end of the line I will not be missed, I whisper to John and move away crawling on my belly.
I made it as far away as I dare and crouched down behind the favourite tree, such a relief, but as I looked up I saw the tanks coming over the hill, they were moving fast towards the battalion, my comrades, and then the guns, one by one I watched unable to move, as they were mowed down. Unexpected was the attack, as we had been lulled into a settled feeling ‘It’s not going to happen’.
And as if it had not happened, they whooped and hollered their joy at their victory, a few more rounds of bullets down into the trenches and they were gone tanks ‘n all.
There was nothing I could do my legs would neither carry me back or forward, so I lay there for minutes with the voices ringing in my head, the wailing and the agonizing groans of death…and I did nothing, I walked away...
Twenty Years Later...
I presumed I was declared missing, I have a new identity, from Ben to William Boden living alone in a perfect place where the sea washes over my face and the sand plays with my toes, but I am lost in an empty shell called man, no feeling just a money making machine, Yes I made it and recovered well from the shock and horror that soon became my conscience, it wakes me up through the night and early morning, I have no sense of time and the money I make from my successful business I give to ex-service men maimed in battle, but I live crippled by guilt.
Was I guilty of desertion, did I leave the battlefield, turning my back on John, Ray and Joe that might have lived if I had gone back?
Yes I was guilty …a coward cowering in the undergrowth waiting for it all to go away, but it lingers here in my heart just like you my love, I will not come back, to be found, I am a lost soul with no heart, no one will rescue me.
You will not receive this letter it will go with me to the grave with my love.
Yours Benjamin
Margaret Baldock – Chirk Writers Circle
WW1 - Fictional Letters
My dear wife,
I write this letter to seek your forgiveness, I fear the man
who left will not be the same man who returns; or indeed
if I return at all. If the latter should arise, I want you to be
brave my darling and seek a new life.
We left with waving banners and cheering. ‘Good luck boys.
it will not be long until you come back to us.’ It has now
been three years, still the fighting and devastation continues.
There is no green as in England, just thick glutinous mud. Our
boots offer no protection as we sink up to our knees and many
are suffering from foot-rot, blackened toes and gangrene.
We sit in the trenches, rats scurrying by like rabid dogs, as we
wait for the blow of whistle, sending us over the top to face a
bombardment of bullets. In the distance a yellow fog rolls across
the ground. A voice shouts out ‘Gas – Gas!’
It hits you and your lungs are bursting..
Now I must try to sleep.
Unknown soldier
Letter written, never sent.
Pauline Faulkner
WOW
WW1 - Fictional Letters
You took him away.
When I wanted to play
Do you know why?
Dear God in the sky
Knelt for my prayers
I climbed the stairs
‘I’ll be up in a while’
Gave me a smile
Said ‘go back to bed’
She patted my head
And where was my Dad?
Why she was sad
Tried to understand
I held Mommy’s hand
‘Now you are two’
‘What will you do?
Grandma was sighing
Mummy was crying
But you’d gone away
I wanted to play
Innocent Grief
Letter from a child
Jan Hedger
WOW
Entrenched Am I In The Letters From Him...
Entrenched am I in the pain of him
of missing him
of the fear in him
Entrenched am I in the heart of him
of anger in him
of the change in him
Entrenched am I in the depth of him
of caring in him
of the soul in him
Entrenched am I in the unity of him
of duty in him
of the soldier in him
Entrenched am I in the battle of him
of fight in him
of the death in him
Entrenched am I in the grief of him
of loss in him
of the anguish in him
Jan Hedger
WOW
Photos Of Exhibition At Oswestry Library
Poems - Jan Hedger - WOW
Glass Painting - Pauline Faulkner - WOW
Mixed Media - Eileen Wiggins - Chirk Writers Circle
Rest of work is by 'Oswestry Makes'
Control Controversy Pens Inks
In Wars conflicts poets poems
In conflicts then falls fallen mourning
Quarreling shouting cursing death
Mayhem war destruction destroying
The dead the fear the loss the life's
Civil wars power wars country wars
World wars family wars drug wars
Family children torn apart torture
Weapons bullet's bomb's missiles knifes
Made created with killing in mind inciting
Violation violence creative to kill maim
Poet writes to ease the tormented
The loss the victims the victors the soldiers
The suffering the suffered the wounded
The poems the healing the consoling
To justify some sense understanding
In a world of senseless cruelty painful
In Conflicts wars poets poems
In Conflicts wars poets poems
Grief sadness pain loss life absence
Author
John Joseph Sheehy
Poetry Briefs! From Early 2018
An Exciting Invitation to Local Primary Schools to take part in a Poetry Slam!
The Steering Group of the Wilfred Owen Festival, taking place in November 2018 , in Oswestry, would like to invite local Primary Schools to take an active part in the success of this inaugural Festival; honouring Wilfred Owen and marking the 100 year Armistice of WW1; with a Poetry Slam!
Poetry will be playing a major part in the events through the week, showcasing both Primary and Secondary schools.
Focusing on WW1 – Wilfred Owen – The Armistice/Peace – Women in War – Sport in WW1 and Refugees then and today etc...
What does this involve?
Schools willing to take part – are invited to choose representatives from their school – to read self-written poems at the Poetry Slam, either individual, or as a group, or to read, individually or as a group a chosen poem or poems of their choice on the subject of WW1 & beyond. Pupils from each school will be on stage together – for their slot and will be fully supported.
How each school chooses those to represent them – I leave to individual schools to discuss how they wish to proceed. An average of four pupils, per school is what I am looking at – at the moment – depending on the take up of this invite. (This was relaxed as we had ample stage time) Poem briefs can be discussed once contact is made. Timescale – we will probably aim for half-term (between Easter and summer break) for completion of project, depending on workshops.
The Poetry Slam will be held at Marches School (date and times TBC) – the Slam will follow the ethos of normal Poetry Slams, in responsive audience appreciation, but will not be competition based, at the event itself. It will just be a showcase of our young people and poetry; their history – their future.
I am also happy to support in discussion visits to each school, and follow-ups as necessary.
Please contact me on 07702165717 or e mail janhedger7@googlemail.com – if you wish your school to take part, we can then go into further discussion and answer any questions you might have.
It will be great to have your school on board, come stamp your feet, clap hands at this exciting Poetry Slam!
Many other supporting events are taking place –through the week of Thurs 1st – Sun 11th of November.
There will be other opportunities for all schools to take an active part – something the steering group are keen to encourage – these opportunities will feed out as the planning continues and events are confirmed.
Jan Wilkins – steering committee - Poetry'
PS - Primary Schools also were represented on the statue - One pupil per participating school copied a piece/or part piece of W Owen's writing/s