Eggplant.place

12d

In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

—Carol Ann Duffy, “War Photographer”
published in COLLECTED POEMS (Picador, 2019)

https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/carol-ann-duffy/collected-poems/9781447231752

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoetry #photography #journalism

War Photographer
by Carol Ann Duffy

In his darkroom he is finally alone
with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.

He has a job to do. Solutions slop in trays
beneath his hands, which did not tremble then
though seem to now. Rural England. Home again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don’t explode beneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.

Something is happening. A stranger’s features
faintly start to twist before his eyes,
a half-formed ghost. He remembers the cries
of this man’s wife, how he sought approval
without words to do what someone must
and how the blood stained into foreign dust.

A hundred agonies in black-and-white
from which his editor will pick out five or six
for Sunday’s supplement. The reader’s eyeballs prick
with tears between the bath and pre-lunch beers.
From the aeroplane he stares impassively at where
he earns his living and they do not care.

ALT

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102d

When you were people
We could have loved you,
Found out your names
And brought you presents…

—“Poem for Innocent Victims of War” by AC Jacobs (1937–1994) – born #OTD, 30 May

Published in NAMELESS COUNTRY: Selected Poems (Carcanet, 2018)

A 🎂 🧵

1/6

https://www.carcanet.co.uk/9781784106751/nameless-country/

#Scottish #literature #poetry #Jewish #diaspora #20thcentury #warpoetry

Poem for Innocent Victims of War
A. C. Jacobs

You did not die for me
Or love or desperation.
No-one chipped your names
On plaques on peaceful blocks of stone.
You are just the useless dead
Who mock our daily sin of passion,
Climb through our heads in cold, slow silence.

When you were people
We could have loved you,
Found out your names
And brought you presents.
We could have walked around with your response.

Or even if you chose to die
We might have understood your longing
And written down your utmost fear.

Now, though, you have got beyond our feelings,
And we can never almost follow
To learn your last shared and perfect secret.

ALT

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95d

“The Sodgers”, by Alexander Scott (1920–1989)

Alexander Scott landed in Normandy with the Gordon Highlanders, & saw action in the Ardennes & crossing the Rhine. He later became Head of Scottish Literature at the University of Glasgow, & was president of ASL from 1976–79

Published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945, ed. David Goldie & Roderick Watson

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #Scots #ScotsLanguage #poem #poetry #DDay #WW2 #WarPoetry

The Sodgers
by Alexander Scott

Nae wi the gallus captains
That niver jinkit war
But socht for glory's wildfire lowe
As wise men aince for anither star—

And nae wi the ramstam colonels
That leuch at the din o the drum
And skirled for the bleeze o battle's Inferno
As saunts micht skirl for Kingdom Come—

But aye wi the sweirt sodgers
That niver wished tae dee
And anelie marched the forrart road
Sen onie back they cudna see—

Near blind wi the reek o wappins
And the reek o leean words,
But niver near sae blind wi bluid
As faa in luve wi guns and swords.

ALT

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95d

When you have walked through a town, as an infantryman
you’ll never go through streets the same way again…

—Colin McIntyre (1927–2012), “Infantryman”
Published in FROM THE LINE: Scottish War Poetry 1914–1945

https://asls.org.uk/publications/books/volumes/from_the_line/

#Scottish #literature #poem #DDay #poetry #WarPoetry #WW2

Infantryman
by Colin McIntyre

When you have walked through a town, as an infantryman
you'll never go through streets the same way again.

There is shoulder-ache from rifle-sling, and sore
butt-bruise, of bolt, on hip and thigh.

The walk comes somewhere between slope and slow hike,
a wary step, splay-footed, as drawers cellular,
catch in the crotch, twist centrifugally around.

Our lot moved at slow deliberate plod, eyes down, look out,
Ted walked on the left, looks right; I took the right,
looked left. Well spaced out, bloody tired all the time.

Ted and I had a reputation, in Four Section, for hitting
the deck, together, quick as a flash, at the first shell.
Ted had a nose for crossroads ranged by guns.

Infantrymen grow fat in later years, from never walking.
Ted would have become quite gross. But Ted's dead.
Stepped on an AP mine in champagne country.
Cheers, Ted, you old sod, you.

ALT

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95d

We’re the D-Day Dodgers out in Italy,
Always on the vino, always on the spree…

—“The Ballad of the D-Day Dodgers”, a WW2 soldiers’ song collected by Hamish Henderson
Sung by Rod Paterson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDXoXx7RRWs&list=OLAK5uy_lyHb3w_CdLiyDsHl84M6obGIoyIc2Ydl4&index=2

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #song #soldiers #DDay #warpoetry #Italy

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70d

The First Battle of the Somme began #OTD, 1 July, 1916. Violet Jacob’s only child, Harry, was killed in action in the battle. Jacob’s war poems are some of the most poignant & affecting works from the Home Front.

“To A.H.J.”, from MORE SONGS OF ANGUS & OTHERS (1918)

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #warpoem #warpoetry #Somme #WW1 #FirstWorldwar

Violet Jacob
“To A.H.J.”

Past life, past tears, far past the grave,‍‍
‍‍‍‍The tryst is set for me,
Since, for our all, your all you gave‍‍
‍‍‍‍On the slopes of Picardy.

On Angus, in the autumn nights,‍‍
‍‍‍‍The ice-green light shall lie.
Beyond the trees the Northern Lights‍‍
‍‍‍‍Slant on the belts of sky.

But miles on miles from Scottish soil‍‍
‍‍‍‍You sleep, past war and scaith,
Your country’s freedman, loosed from toil.‍‍
‍‍‍‍In honour and in faith.

For Angus held you in her spell,
‍‍‍‍Her Grampians, faint and blue,
Her ways, the speech you knew so well,
‍‍‍‍Were half the world to you.

Yet rest, my son; our souls are those‍‍
‍‍‍‍Nor time nor death can part,
And lie you proudly, folded close‍‍
‍‍‍‍To France’s deathless heart.

ALT

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