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Chriskay,, just read about Robert Frost. What a sad life. The poems seemed to have a lonely feel to them and then I read about his tragic life story. He certainly managed to transfer his obvious pain into beautiful language, he must have had a weeping heart.

WAR POEM by FiremanFil

It's hard to be a Tommy in the First World War
Conditions here are terrible and everyone is bored
So it becomes a blessed relief to hear the sergeant cry
"Come on, my lads!! Over the top!! Let's all go out to die!!"

The rattle of machine guns is the only sound to hear
The harsh staccato tattoo signals cold and chilling fear
If one's unlucky, stops a bullet, stumbles, tumbles down
The clinging mud will claim him (Lord-how horrible to drown!)

But some survive the holocaust, the bullets and the rain, yet
Then it's "Hand-to-hand, boys!" and "Let's get 'em with the bayonet!"
Being a man of passion, even after years of "KILL!"
I find it hard to think of ending life with cold sharp steel.


However, there's no time for that; no second to reflect
The man next door has fallen down with shrapnel in his neck.
Blind hate wells up inside me; I become a maniac
"Here's one for you, you foreign swine!" I stab him in the back,

The carnage still continues; blood and bodies deck the ground
You're in a private battle, though it rages all around
Insanity prevails and both side's losses mount to huge
'Til all the devil's work is temporarily ended by a bugle.

"Recall, my lads!! Retire!! Let's all get back and lick our wounds!!
We'll have a count to see how many left back here are friends
We've all done well, today, my lads; I'll say it's on the cards
That, for a mere ten thousand lives, we've won a hundred yards."

We know that we must all be mad, because it's been a wrench
To break off from the slaughter to the safety of the trench
"Please, God," I pray "Protect me; keep me free from any harm
And let me get home safely to my wife; my son; my farm"

"The land back home is good and green and I'd grow wheat for bread
Should I be fortunate enough to come back from the dead.
I've had enough of killing-I may even kill myself
If that would save my soul I'd leave my son with all my wealth."

"Then he, at least, could till the land; I'd hope that he'd try hard.
Inspired by the memory of a proud and loving Dad
Who gave his life with other men-whatever be it for
But one who thought hardest of the futility of war."

whos that written by Phil

It was written by me!! :-) I was inspired by my grandfather who fought in WW1. He told me that many of the tommies were from farming stock. He never talked about the war-so I improvised from my own experiences in the Army and tried to capture the atmosphere.

well done phil keep them comming

Wonderful poem Fil. How it seems to relate to so much the poor chaps suffered. We won't ever really comprehend, will we?

Diary of a Church Mouse by John Betjeman

Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looks
I nibble through old service books.
Lean and alone I spend my days
Behind this Church of England baize.
I share my dark forgotten room
With two oil-lamps and half a broom.
The cleaner never bothers me,
So here I eat my frugal tea.
My bread is sawdust mixed with straw;
My jam is polish for the floor.
Christmas and Easter may be feasts
For congregations and for priests,
And so may Whitsun. All the same,
They do not fill my meagre frame.
For me the only feast at all
Is Autumn's Harvest Festival,
When I can satisfy my want
With ears of corn around the font.
I climb the eagle's brazen head
To burrow through a loaf of bread.
I scramble up the pulpit stair
And gnaw the marrows hanging there.
It is enjoyable to taste
These items ere they go to waste,
But how annoying when one finds
That other mice with pagan minds
Come into church my food to share
Who have no proper business there.
Two field mice who have no desire
To be baptized, invade the choir.
A large and most unfriendly rat
Comes in to see what we are at.
He says he thinks there is no God
And yet he comes ... it's rather odd.
This year he stole a sheaf of wheat
(It screened our special preacher's seat),
And prosperous mice from fields away
Come in to hear our organ play,
And under cover of its notes
Ate through the altar's sheaf of oats.
A Low Church mouse, who thinks that I
Am too papistical, and High,
Yet somehow doesn't think it wrong
To munch through Harvest Evensong,
While I, who starve the whole year through,
Must share my food with rodents who
Except at this time of the year
Not once inside the church appear.
Within the human world I know
Such goings-on could not be so,
For human beings only do
What their religion tells them to.
They read the Bible every day
And always, night and morning, pray,
And just like me, the good church mouse,
Worship each week in God's own house,
But all the same it's strange to me
How very full the church can be
With people I don't see at all
Except at Harvest Festival.

My husband used to recite the whole of this - for the children really - but I loved it.

Albert and the Lion


There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert,
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much of the Ocean:
The waves, they were fiddlin' and small,
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,
Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement,
They paid and went into the Zoo,
Where they'd Lions and Tigers and Camels,
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big Lion called Wallace;
His nose were all covered with scars -
He lay in a somnolent posture,
With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about Lions,
How they was ferocious and wild -
To see Wallace lying so peaceful,
Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,
Not showing a morsel of fear,
Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the Lion didn't like it,
For giving a kind of a roll,
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im,
And swallowed the little lad 'ole.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,
And didn't know what to do next,
Said 'Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert',
And Mother said 'Well, I am vexed!'

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom -
Quite rightly, when all's said and done -
Complained to the Animal Keeper,
That the Lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it;
He said 'What a nasty mishap.
Are you sure that it's your boy he's eaten?'
Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!'

The manager had to be sent for.
He came and he said 'What's to do?'
Pa said 'Yon Lion's 'et Albert,
'And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too.'

Then Mother said, 'Right's right, young feller;
I think it's a shame and a sin,
For a lion to go and eat Albert,
And after we've paid to come in.'

The manager wanted no trouble,
He took out his purse right away,
Saying 'How much to settle the matter?'
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?'

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone.
She said 'No! someone's got to be summonsed' -
So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the P'lice Station,
In front of the Magistrate chap;
They told 'im what happened to Albert,
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion
That no one was really to blame
And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing,
'And thank you, sir, kindly,' said she.
'What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!'


Marriott Edgar

Yes, he knew a lot of tragedy in his life. Not all his poems have that lonely feel (I'll post a more cheerful one soon), but his great strength is his ability to speak to you very directly, touching a nerve.
I came across him years ago as a result of my love of the songs of Simon and Garfunkel: in "the Dangling Conversation" are the lines "and you read your Emily Dickinson, and I my Robert Frost. And we note our place with bookmarkers, which measure what we've lost". Which is itself a telling thought.

I don't remember reading this one before.

The Return of Albert


You've 'eard 'ow young Albert Ramsbottom,
In the Zoo up at Blackpool one year,
With a stick and 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
Gave a lion a poke in the ear.

The name of the lion was Wallace,
The poke in the ear made 'im wild;
And before you could say 'Bob's your Uncle,'
'E'd up and 'e'd swallered the child.

'E were sorry the moment 'e'd done it,
With children 'e'd always been chums,
And besides, 'e'd no teeth in 'is noodle,
And 'e couldn't chew Albert on t'gums.

'E could feel the lad moving inside 'im,
As 'e lay on 'is bed of dried ferns,
And it might 'ave been little lad's birthday,
'E wished 'im such 'appy returns.

But Albert kept kicking and fighting,
Till Wallace arose feeling bad,
And felt it were time that 'e started to stage
A come-back for the lad.

So with 'is 'ead down in a corner,
On 'is front paws 'e started to walk,
And 'e coughed and 'e sneezed and 'e gargled,
Till Albert shot out like a cork.

Old Wallace felt better direc'ly,
And 'is figure once more became lean,
But the only difference with Albert
Was 'is face and 'is 'ands were quite clean.

Meanwhile Mister and Missus Ramsbottom
'Ad gone 'ome to tea feeling blue;
Ma says 'I feel down in the mouth like,'
Pa says "Aye! I bet Albert does too.'

Said Ma 'It just goes for to show yer
That the future is never revealed,
If I thought we was going to lose 'im
I'd 'ave not 'ad 'is boots soled and 'eeled.

'Let's look on the bright side,' said Father
'What can't be 'elped must be endured,
Every cloud 'as a silvery lining,
And we did 'ave young Albert insured.'

A knock at the door came that moment,
As Father these kind words did speak,
'Twas the man from t'Prudential,
E'd called for their 'tuppence per person per week.'

When Father saw who 'ad been knocking,
'E laughed and 'e kept laughing so,
That the young man said 'What's there to laugh at?'
Pa said 'You'll laugh an' all when you know.'

'Excuse 'im for laughing,' said Mother,
'But really things 'appen so strange,
Our Albert's been ate by a lion,
You've got to pay us for a change.'

Said the young feller from the Prudential,
'Now, come come, let's understand this,
You don't mean to say that you've lost 'im?'
Ma says 'Oh, no! we know where 'e is.'

When the young man 'ad 'eard all the details,
A bag from 'is pocket he drew,
And he paid them with interest and bonus,
The sum of nine pounds four and two.

Pa 'ad scarce got 'is 'and on the money,
When a face at the window they see,
And Mother says 'Eeh! look, it's Albert,'
And Father says 'Aye, it would be.'

Young Albert came in all excited,
and started 'is story to give,
And Pa says 'I'll never trust lions again,
Not as long as I live.'

The young feller from the Prudential
To pick up his money began,
And Father says 'Eeh! just a moment,
Don't be in a hurry, young man.'

Then giving young Albert a shilling,
He said 'Pop off back to the Zoo.
'Ere's your stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle,
Go and see what the Tigers can do!'


Marriott Edgar

Robert Frost.

Unharvested

A Scent of ripeness from over a wall,
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load,
And of all but its trivial foliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady’s fan,
For there there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.

May something go always unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.

Chriskay you must be psychic! This is also one of my favourite poems.
A friend of mine introduced me to it and then wrote it out for me in beautiful copper plate handwriting. It is now framed and on a coffee table. A lovely reminder of a special person and of happy memories.
The poem is wonderful with such good advice-Choose your path and accept all that follows

I have a very cheap CD with three Albert poems(includes the two quoted) and fantastic other items:

Stanley Holloway-Penny on the Drum-19 tracks
PGN CD 834 made by Pegasus

We Will Always Remember Them

by Chief Petty Officer Coxswain George Luck D.S.M.

When Britain seeks to carve it's name on History's Bloodstained Roll,
It can point in pride to it's Submarines, "Dear God", you took your toll.
It was said they were damned un-English, a weapon to be abhorred
But in a world where you fight for your freedom that's a view you just cannot afford.
So in trying to balance life's budget, when we sit down and add up the cost
High up on the list is the price we paid, eighty two boats that we lost.

The first on the roll was the "Oxley" then "Seahorse", "Undine" and "Starfish"
"Thistle", "Tarpon" and "Sterlet", then "Unity" and "Seal" was God's wish.
One after the other went "Odin", then "Grampus", "Orpheus" and "Shark"
The "Salmon", the "Phoenix" and then came the "Thames", no wonder the future looked dark.
The "Narwhal", the "Oswald" and "Spearfish" and little "H49" too
The "Rainbow", "Triad" and "Swordfish", our country was paying it's due.
"Regulus", "Triton", "Snapper" and "Usk", "Undaunted","Umpire" as well
"Union", "Cachalot", "P33", all sailing their own road to hell.

We lost "P32" and the "Tetrarch", the "Perseus" and the "P31",
The "Triumph", the "Tempest" and "P38", and sadly the list just goes on.
There was "P39" and "P36", "Pandora" and "Upholder" too.
"Urge", "Olympus" and "P514", "Thorn" and "Talisman", long overdue.
"Unique", "Unbeaten" and "Utmost", then the turn of "P222".
"Traveller", "P48" and "P311", Lord is this what you want us to do?
Then came "Vandal", "Tigris", "Thunderbolt", and "Turbulent","Regent" as well.
With "P615", "Splendid", "Sahib", all bowing to fate's awful knell.

The "Untamed", the "Parthian" and "Saracen", the "X" Crafts "9", "8" and "5"
Followed by "6", then "7", then "10". Yes Lord they'd done their last dive.
"Usurper", the "Trooper", the next was "Simoom", "X22" also was lost.
And the ex-German "Graph" then made her last dive, we earned freedom at terrible cost.
"Stonehenge", "Syrtis" and "Sickle", please God just how many more?
The "Strategem" went to her resting place, on that far distant, hostile shore.

And so near the end of the Roll Out, our White Ensign proud but Half Mast
Right up to the end our Submarines paid, for "Porpoise" was the last.
Each year we gather at Blockhouse and ask that their Memories be Blessed
For we stand proud and tall as "Old Comrades", with our Dolphins pinned on our chest.
So we who survived now pray to our God, "Let our boys grow up to be men.
If we paid the price unflinchingly, Dear Lord don't ask them to pay it again."

George Luck was a member of the Merseyside Submariners Association and served in boats from 1941 to 1947 being on the "Rorqual", "P217", "P339". "Taurus" and "Affray". He died in May 2007 at 85 years of age.

He was a lovely fellah. This poem has been learned by heart by one of our Members and he recites it at the Annual Reunion, a very emotional moment. Also worth remembering that this was the WWII Roll Call. 167 boats were lost all together in 2 wars. The Germans lost more than we did. A very dodgy trade.

The Last Man in the Air Force.

Anon.

I'm the last man left in the Air Force
I've an office in MOD
And a copy of Queen's Regulations
Which apply only to me.
I can post myself to Leuchars
And detach me from there to Kinloss.
Or send me on courses to Boda
Then cancel the lot, I'm the boss.

I'm the last man left in the Air Force
I suppose you imagine it's great
To be master of all that you survey, but
I tell you it's difficult mate.
I inspected 3 units last Thursday
As C in C (Acting) of Strike
Then I cleaned out the bogs at Brize Norton
And repaired Saxa Vord's station bike.

I'm the last man left in the Air Force.
My wife says I'm never home
But when I'm not flying kites I'm at Manston
Laying gallons and gallons of foam.
Or I'm in my marine craft off Plymouth
Shooting flares at the crowd on the Hoe
Or I'm Orderly Corporal at Luqa
It's an interesting life, but all go.

I'm the last man left in the Air Force
I'm ADC to the Queen
I'm the Duty Clerk at St Mawgan
I'm the RAF rugby team.
Tomorrow I'm painting the Guardroom
And air-testing several planes
The day after that I'm in London
To preach at St. Clement Danes.

I'm the last man left in the Air Force
And I'm due to go out before long.
There's been no talk of a replacement
And I won't even let me sign on.
I hope I enjoy my retirment,
I've put up a fairly good show
But I won't cut myself off entirely
There's always re-unions you know.

I've had a copy of this for at least the last 40 years and it's just about to come pretty well true again. They were talking of cuts then as well.