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Maϟϟ Extermination

Poems Written By Soldiers

8 posts in this topic

In this thread, anyone may post poems written by soldiers, be it German or Soviet, WW1 or WW2 and so on.

1.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5yeGaM7fGg

Descrption: This poem was written by a Waffen-SS soldier while on the Eastern Front. Some of you might know it from the Blood Axis song above.

To every sailor the gods have given a comrade

While one sleeps the other keeps watch on the bridge

When one doubts the other gives him his faith

When one falls the other discovers the oasis of ice for both of them

If my comrade doubts I laugh confidently

If my comrade sleeps I keep the watch for him

If my comrade falls I fight on for the both of us

Because to every warrior the gods have given a comrade

If you loose heart, I'll laugh joyfully

And if you sleep, I'll keep watch for you

And if you fall, I'll fight on for the both of us

Because to every warrior the gods have given a comrade

2.

Description: This is a poem written in Russia(Winter 1942) by SS-Sturmmann Georg Lechner, who came from Straubing and longed to see his home town landmark, the Straubinger Turm.

Recently, I stood on guard, and I saw you in front of me.

My good old tower, you stood there in bright sunlight,

I did not see the war's bad face, nor the huts of the people,

I did not see the frozen dead Russians, or the old panje horse,

looking for fodder, even that was gone.

I saw my home town , very near, I heard the bell of the clock ringing,

the bell, that often had called me to hurry, in those long gone peaceful days,

That was before we made our way through the Russian steppe.

My god, old tower, how I long to stand again in your shadow,

But we stand here in Russia, so you can stand in eternity.

Then all of a sudden, I heard a shot, and I was back on my guard, and the call came!

"You must"

I heard a rattling of weapons and steel, good bye, my dear tower , I hope to see you again.

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A valuable source of war poetry, mainly by French, British and US soldiers, from WWI to contemporary wars here.

(And of course I know Blood Axis' version of The Song of the Comrade. It's a great band.)

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Farewell from a prisoner sentenced to death - Civil War era:

The bells of death toll silently in the air,

When the cruel scythe of Death harvests its prey.

Now heavy sorrow burrows into heart and marks Death's path with tears.

Mother don't cry for your lost child, even though you have been robbed of your only protection.

So put away your worries, cast your hope away to oblivion.

And wait 'till we meet in eternity.

Good bye congenial spirits, you still wander,

Dreaming you travel to the dawn.

No one knows when their time comes and when the night falls.

My life is now just a dream image and drowsy toil.

There is a mound in a forest shade, where I sleep.

And there the pinewoods play their songs for me.

The sound of bells doesn't disturb my eternal sleep.

My dust doesn't need the blessing of a priest.

When the summer wakes up the flowers to my mound,

Birds play their songs to console me.

This is the altar of one who has suffered, and the grave of a tired one,

Whose flowers bloom with tear pearls.

If you ever learn of death, my dear, and know

Where my resting place lies,

Then plant a red rose on my grave.

It grows there as a memory of my cause.

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The Soldier

by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

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In Flanders Fields by John McCrae.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

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Julian Grenfell

Into Battle

The naked earth is warm with spring,

And with green grass and bursting trees

Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,

And quivers in the sunny breeze;

And life is colour and warmth and light,

And a striving evermore for these;

And he is dead who will not fight;

And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun

Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;

Speed with the light-foot winds to run,

And with the trees to newer birth;

And find, when fighting shall be done,

Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven

Hold him in their high comradeship,

The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven,

Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together,

They stand to him each one a friend;

They gently speak in the windy weather;

They guide to valley and ridge's end.

The kestrel hovering by day,

And the little owls that call by night,

Bid him be swift and keen as they,

As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,

If this be the last song you shall sing,

Sing well, for you may not sing another;

Brother, sing."

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,

Before the brazen frenzy starts,

The horses show him nobler powers;

O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks,

And all things else are out of mind,

And only joy of battle takes

Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

Through joy and blindness he shall know,

Not caring much to know, that still

Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so

That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands,

And in the air death moans and sings;

But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,

And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

Not an easy find, it seems if you look a majority of war poetry isn't actually written by the people who were there which may explain why most (but not all, Owen Seaman is pretty good) of it is negative.

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The original is a brilliant poem, and much is lost in the translation, but I'll still give it a shot. Literal translation, so it naturally doesn't rhyme.

The border opens like a chasm

Before us is the Asia, the East

Behind the West and the Europe

I, the Guardian, protect it.

Behind us the beautiful Fatherland

with its cities and towns.

Your sons will protect you

my land, the most precious of my treasures.

Nightly, howling wind brings

snow from behind the border.

My father, mother, O Lord,

let them sleep peacefully.

Give seeds to their bin

let their cattle breed!

May your hands bless the fields!

From here I will protect them.

Grim, cold is the winter night

The East is breathing its icy breath.

There is the slavery and forced labor.

observed by the stars.

From far away, from the steppes rises

the spirit of Ivan the Terrible.

The ghost of bane, it divines:

the morning shall see blood.

But our gray fathers

ride with ghost steeds from their graves

Bear spears in their hands

they charge towards the border.

The glorified spirits of grandfathers

Listen to the word of your son

If I fail it, come

as the army of vengeance

The iron sole of the enemy

won't desecrate your resting place with its step

I will protect the border of my country!

The foreigners will never

steal your dear heritage.

Let them come as wolves from their steppes!

They'll fit in our dirt.

With the strong hearts of bears

We rush against their spears

defending the spinning wheels of our women

and the cradles of our children!

The border opens like a chasm

Before us is the Asia, the East

Behind the West and the Europe

I, the Guardian, protect it.

Uuno Kailas - Rajalla (On the Border) 1931

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