ANZAC Dawn.and others

ANZAC Dawn.and others

 

Three poems by my pen celebrating ANZAC each year.

 

 

The Monument

 

Included in the ten foot slab,

of granite and marble,

those stark words-

"They died for their country"

every year, once a year

people are reminded.

 

Why only once?

 

Etched on the faces of those who parade,

a sense of loss, of wounded pride

and a memory of those that died,

carried in their hearts

and souls and minds

the ones who went,

became left behind.

 

Old ladies at the RSA,

tend the kitchen and the bar,

measure plates of salad,

pints of liquor,

to hide the scars, of those they serve

and their own, the ones passed on,

like the letters in the marble,

all going, going, gone.

Why only once a year?

 

The sacrifice was too large

for a once a year thought,

as if their efforts were for nought,

and those that died,

living a desolate lie,

every Anzac Day they live for half a day,

then quietly forgotten.

 

Lest we forget.

 

Maybe a plaque in every school,

"Kia Kaha, they died for you"

serve their spirit, their memory

for the betterment of a new world,

walk proud, be kind,

walk the walk of peace for all mankind,

take honour in their blood

and wash yourself of their cleansing lotion,

Arohanui, fallen warriors,

you are missed, and never forgotten.

 

ANZAC Day Dawn

 

Two countries meet,

each year on 25th April,

to remember those that fought,

whose lives never came to nought.

 

Every year on that day,

from 6am to midday,

commemorations throughout the land,

old soldiers and children walk,

hand in hand.

 

Should we not remember

our venerated vets,

three words,

Lest we forget.

 

 

The Ode of Remembrance

 

 

We stand and fight

condemned by the next bullet

with your name firmly etched upon it.

 

We eat weeks old food

enough to sustain a certain death

the shelling sending lesser men crazy,

 

We pick up fallen comrades

carry them back to the first aid post

their journey in death over for now, forgotten

 

except men with honour and integrity

never shun an honest toil to kill or maim,

the sludge of winter mud in an Italian front slippery,

 

the take on death increasing apace

with each passing yard gained, or lost

the enemy also aware they could be going home

 

We take injuries, cracked bones

worn out backs, frozen toes in sodden socks

the boys of the sawbones busy with each intake.

 

As quick as it comes, it passes

the ladies cheering our return, our demise

the nation ready to hold us in high regard, honoured

 

The days pass, numbers fall

each Anzac Day sees the fighters

return to the battlefield and remember the dead,

 

those who fell to a named bullet

those who fell to a carefully aimed mortar,

those who simply fell to fatigue, minds lost,

 

and each time one passes

we recite the Ode, the constant reminder

that human life is infallible, transient, lasting,

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.*

* The Ode is recited at ANZAC Days, at each day in the Returned Serviceman’s Associations, and on the Death of a Comrade at the Funeral. I dedicate this poem to my Uncle Kelvin who was part of J Force in Japan and an Army man for a while. The Ode comes from For the Fallen, a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in The Winnowing Fan: Poems of the Great War in 1914.