Slate

I. Beneath the Kings feet we play

It is night now
one of the quiet times
when the we and the Krauts
stop the madness if for just a night
the shelling, shooting, gassing
and dying
ceases
Nameless new boy is peering over the parapet
smoking a f*g
as if the red ember of the cherry
is taunting the Boche
to take a quick crack at his head
but they’ll not raise to his bait tonight
they’ve cigarettes of their own to smoke
Sergeant plays his accordian by the glow
of a weak lantern fire
his music, a northern tune
strains down the line
and though no one dances
we all think of home
and the deep trenches as if for a moment
become the deep smoky pubs
and the fire a roaring hearth
I’ve a hand jutting from the dirt wall next to me
some poor chap be it German, British, or French
who met his end some time ago
I’ve put it to some use
the boney white fingers holding
my pen, paper, and candle
it is gruesome I suppose, but still
I do not belive that this man would mind
being a use to another soldier
hopefully, the quiet will last the night
after I write my letters
I will bed down to minutes of fitful sleep
with my fellows the fleas, lice, and rats
and together
we will have dreamless sleep


II. All this for a bit of ground; however churned and broken

Down! I’ve got to
get the bloody hell down.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
and other saints that might save me
the shelling is bad today
screaming in overhead
crashing down amongst us
like some unwelcome heavy loud drunken guest
who stays too long
and messes the place about
if I could meld with my earthen walls
but no, for the earth is not safe
when a shell filled with explosive ordnance
sends parts of metal, man, and earth
flying at velocity and speed
Corporal lays next to me wounded
with shrapnel shards of bone and metal
from other Corporal's head down the line a bit
sticking from his back
this is like some bad joke
men wounded by the bodies of other men
whom have been destroyed by the shelling
of some other men who in turn will be killed
by the shelling of some of our men
this bloody violent vicious circle that is our
merry little party
I think that I’ll put my hands on my head
join the countless others that are screaming
whilst I think of other Corporal
whom used to stand just down the line
with his person still entire


III. Like a summer stroll

The boys in arty must have done their jobs today
For other than the biting smell of chlorine
No one is there
The fire their weapons at us
So we walk the short distance across
No mans land
To their side
Where they are still in the trenches
Curled up side by side
Some clutching their throats
Some who have clawed their faces off
Some who have their masks, like us
on
but for some reason it didn’t work
for behind the lenses are the sightless eyes
of dead men
as we all stand at the edge of their trench
and look down upon what
chlorine gas has done
I see one man sitting comfortable against a bench he has dug
with paper and pencil in hand
grinning underneath the blood that flowed from his
eyes, ears, and nose
it reminds me of me
and strangely, this w***e I had, or tried to have
last week on leave
who tried her best ministrations
bouncing, sucking and f*****g
upon my deflated member
who lay prostrate upon my belly
but there was no action
no straightening of a my tree
no standing at attention at the line
after I paid and she left, cursing and screaming at me in French
I sat back and grinned and smoked
like this gentleman now
even though he has perished
the joke is on us
come what may
the joke is on all of us


IV. Slate, stone, myself and other grey things

For of all the things that have been taken from me
my smile, my youth, my left leg
here in the hospital ward
back in safe pleasant England
with green hills and leafy trees
chocolate and f**s
shepherd’s pie and chips
smiling doctors and nurses
far, far, far away
from where my friends
even now are still trodding, crawling, dying
upon and below the broken ground
eeking their existence
maybe one will find my foot
bleached white and jutting
turn his boot upon it upside down
to dry and stretch the leathers
yes, I would like that very much
to still be of use any use
of all the things that have been taken from me
my smile, my youth, my left leg
what I miss the most
if for no one but myself
I cannot weep
I cannot weep
I cannot feel