Prelude
100 years on
And
where have all those people gone?
A
generation born of two century's before.
Victorian,
Edwardian Children, women and men.
Yet
still we are the same human race,
Divided
by time in the same earthy space.
The
same small space in which the living,
Live
alongside a spiritual place -
Split
in time that strangely circles on, where
Lost
days repeat in a man made calendar.
Once
1914 give way to 2014 -
However
long the divide, days and years
Become
as stepping stones,
To
link us to the past now and forever.
One
week to war.
What
was it like to know
Nothing
of fighting in a foreign land.
Nothing
of handguns, rifles or grenade?
To
know nothing of trenches,
Of
the mud of Flanders, or the Somme
Or
any other hellfire place.
To
know nothing of barbed wire fences,
Nothing
of pal's fate before they were battalions,
Or
of friendships to be made
And
friendships to be broken.
Close
friends crushed by death -
That
cold heartless act -
Cut
down by bayonet,
By
bullet, shrapnel gas and shells.
No
names carved in stone,
Immortalizing
each lost officer or soldier.
No
war horse, war nurse or ammunition worker.
What
would it be like to know none of these?
And
of dreaded Neurasthenia - Shell
shock -
Born
of quaking fear in battle,
Men's
nerves destroyed like a ticking clock,
Such
rewards for some to be short at dawn.
What
would it be like to know none of this?
As
ordinary days unfold closer to a brink,
Ordinary
folk worked and walked and read
Newspapers
that told of a world beyond,
Their
blissful, ignorant knowing.
Behind
slow glass walls diplomacy whirred.
Surely
British shores give island safety,
From
any possible European war?
This
empire too civilized, too prosperous
Is
drawn by allied links to Belgium
neutrality.
Such
a simple bloodied act of assassination
Leads
to ultimatum after ultimatum;
Like
a raging storm fills a rising river.
Diplomacy
starts to quiver.
Tuesday
July 28:
Austria declares war on Serbia,
And
the British go to Scapa Flow.
Wednesday
July 29:
Austria finds cousin Russia,
Waiting,
brooding at their border.
Thursday
July 30:
British
seek to block the road to war,
But
saber rattling goes on.
Friday
July 31:
An
angry Kaiser orders the Tsar
To
demobilize, or there will be war.
Saturday
August 1:
Finds
France and Germany
Take
up arms, with Belgium
caught between.
And
what if war had been averted?
What
would have been of art, invention and medicine?
Advancement
surely made, but at a slower pace?
Surely
still in the darkening hour, diplomacy might turn
Rising
tensions and lead to de-escalations.
Even
in the eleventh hour people go about their leisure.
Unaware,
walking by dark government windows,
Of
the slowing, creaking twist of political wheels;
The
hands of the clock turn, the countdown has begun.
Prosperous
people of a blessed sceptred isle,
Linger
in the late sun. Basking by each tick of the hour
By
each second of each slow turning clock.
Some
drink some play chess, a game of strategy,
Some
read papers and see between each line,
How
a pact with Belgium
could tip the balance.
Holiday people by the sea happily bathe and
laugh,
While
those at home remain so self-assured
Of
a post Edwardian Britain, quietly drink their tea.
Such
families take for granted their young men -
Streets
full of young men in early manhood,
Not
long having shrugged off childhood.
Brooding
young men seeking a trade or career.
Perhaps
secretly wishing more for adventure.
Perhaps
an army career ruminates in their minds eye,
If
by any slim chance Britain
goes to war.
Young
men not long from school, or university,
Leave
empty classrooms far behind,
An
innocent past, never again to be the same;
That
summer of 1914 took a last departure.
Quietly
war beckons like a young man's game.
Schools
are empty, scholars desert their class
And
happy undergrads leave the silence of a quad.
Poets
in the houses, well read, quietly devise
Pastoral
rhymes, in unknowing practice to dwell
On
the coming age of men's blood, death and mud.
Minds
well fed of knowledge, are ready for the slaughter.
Others
in the house; mothers, aunts, sisters, sweethearts,
Look
on their fathers, uncles, brothers and lovers,
In
all innocence of a sword that swings above their heads.
If
they could look across the evening table and count
Each
man as he slowly melts away, then would they say;
'Women
of Britain
say go!' and give each loitering fellow,
A
slow kiss of a white feather - would they? Would they?
by Jamie Mann.
Mann, J., 2014. 100 years Ago - Poems by Jamie Mann. [letter] (Personal
communication, 4 August 2014).
#WW1centenary
#GreatWar #WW1 #WW1poem #GreatWar #ww1centenary #worldwarone #worldwaroneremembered
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