Three poems 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.*
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.
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