The Shadow of the Poppy
Emily Edwards
Austin Macauley Publishers
The Shadow of the Poppy
About the Author
About the Book
Other books by the author:
Dedication
Copyright Information
In Memory of Alfred Edwards (1894 – 1916)
Dust on their Boots
Sunset
The Battle Cry
The Letter
Lady of my Heart
Prelude
The Defector
Broken
L’ enfant
Festive Memories
The Truce
Where Are You?
The Devil Has Risen
Guard My Soul
The Angel of Mons
Lamentation
The Devil’s Breath
Last Rites
The Bayonet
Gone – But Not Forgotten
The Bullet
Healing Hands
Pity My Soul
Epitaph
Fanfare
I Cried Tonight My Friend
Whisper My Name
A Soldier’s Rest
The Shadow of the Poppy
Letters from Home
By Return
Awakening
My Child
Vision
My Pain
Part Two
The Quickening
Parting
Pain of Loss
Memory
Ode to the Fallen
Desolation
Lost
A Mother’s Lament
Who Am I?
Repose
Stop the World
Author’s Note
About the Author
Born and schooled within the city of Coventry, the author entered university later in life, gaining Bachelors and Master’s degrees. Her passion for writing, combined with the deep understanding of historical facts culminated in the stories and poetry she writes today.
About the Book
Within the ranks of a beleaguered army, hearts and thoughts turn towards home. A whole generation of young men, torn asunder by ravages of war, tormented by what would become known as the ‘Devil’s Breath’. From the rats that scampered around the dying, to the machines of steel trampling everything under their rolling treads, to the flying bullets and double-edged bayonets, the barbed-wire fencing and blood-curdling screams, ‘no man’s land’ became representative of hell.
As the demons of war raged around them, many a young man sat with a pen between their shaking fingers to write their fears: their desperation over a life that was fading…
Other books by the author:
The ‘Art’ of Deception
Austin Macauley Publishers (2017)
Dedication
Georgina Emily 1986–2016
Copyright Information
Copyright © Emily Edwards (2018)
The right of Emily Edwards to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528905374 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528905381 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528905398 (E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2018)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
In Memory of Alfred Edwards (1894 – 1916)
Son of Agnes Edwards, who was shot through the head at the hands of a sniper after carrying a comrade to the medical team on 3rd September 1916 near Guillemont Farm, Guillemont -
The Battle of the Somme.
This book may also be indicative to all soldiers who did not come home from the Great War, World War 1 1914- 1918, also significant to those who died in World War 2 1939 – 1945, and subsequent wars.
We are but the dust where other men walk.
As you read these poems I would like you to imagine the war-torn fields of
France 1914- 1918
Booming guns, barbed wire, and a never-ending stream of trenches –
The riverine of dust where young men – uniforms covered by the dirt of cratered mud and the dried blood of a comrade, huddled within the pools of brown water congregating around their feet. Or when summer came these fly infested moats became pits of disease where the odour of human excrement, rats, and unwashed bodies mixed with the heat.
They knew fear – not as we know fear, but a black gaping hole deep inside themselves representing ‘nothing’; no thought of the past, no peace for the present, no excitement for the future. For this part of France was ‘No-Man’s Land’ – a term used by soldiers to describe a strip of ground between the opposing trenches of the German and Allied armies, snaking along the Western Front as far as the battlefield extended.
Land where death and corruption met; fusing together in a solid block of evil.
It became a metaphor for the Gladiator’s arena of old; a bloody field where young men faced the roar of a deadly lion, in the guise of a bullet, a battle shell, or burning chemical weapons; i.e. Mustard gas. Once their feet stepped across the parapet of a shelter, the jeer of the crowd symbolised by the noise of the guns, led to the loss of limbs, internal organs, or more often than not, their life. Their ’Caesar’s thumb became the shrill blow of a whistle; the commander’s voice demanding their ultimate submission to orders.
This command to war was for country – that beloved perimeter of land whose shores are lapped upon by a sea that can be either tranquil or rough; where the hearts of loved ones reside in ignorance to the horror of battle, and the United flag flutters alongside the flags of the Allied Armies.
The price for freedom – the gladiator of youth into the arena of death.
The few who made it home would be scarred for life; memories of a time and place that they alone could visit. No solace of grief could relieve their heart of a conflict that trapped their subconscious in an eternal hell hole, where dark shadows of desolation and horror threw the bones of beloved comrades onto a pyre of rotting corpses, and the pain of separation imbeds the heart into the dungeons of Lucifer’s prisons.
I have tried, in memory of a man whom I never knew, yet through the genetics of family are connected, to bring the horror of his battlefield to life. To convey those dark shadows of abandoned dissolution, when the soul thrashes for a mooring; understanding fleeing with each passing moment, breathing becomes a chore, living a complication, and praying – second nature.
’In the face of death, brothers unite’
As the words of these poems are written for a soldier of the Great War, we must not forget the women who served along the Western Front as nurses. It is also true that these poems would hold fast for men and women who gave their lives in the Second World War; countless conflicts since, and into the future.
Dust on their Boots
Can you hear the trudge of feet- the sound of excited young men
as cropping the grass aside the road we march to the lion’s den.
Dust on our boots, sun in our eyes; anger in our minds – the excitement of war.
A waft of a curtain, a wave of a hand, as in-land our weary feet tread -
the allied army file with pride – in the home of the forgotten dead.
Dust on our boots, sun in our eyes; anger in our hearts – the complication of war.
Behind us rolls the ocean- laden with young men’s fears-
before our eyes the fire of hell; it’s bell tolls in our ears.
Dust on our boots, sun in our eyes; anger in our throats – the demons of war.
On, on, and on we trek, the song of victory rings –
praying, hoping, wishing, the scorpion would lose its sting.
Dust on our boots, sun in our eyes; anger in the guns – the instruments of war.
Feet have thoughts of fleeing; yet hearts are steadfast and strong
the battle that is looming – the retribution of the wronged.
Dust on our boots, sun in our eyes; fire in hands – the enemy of war.
Like boys we came. Like men we will die
far from home – a silent cry.
Dust on our boots, sun in our eyes; anger in my penning -
“The futility of war”
Sunset
It is a cold day – half past three I think,
the sun is setting in a wintry sky, and
I try to grasp a cigarette between
my shaking fingers – take from its
warmth in this foreign land.
We sit -
huddled together in a mud
filled ditch, the others and I -
watching the blood red of a dying orb
spread across this field of war – smell
the decaying limbs, as we suck on the
unfiltered end of a soothing stick.
Silence fills the air...
Silence that is, as guns cease to fire,
and men halt their screams.
I sigh -
think of the last time I saw your
face – my body slumped in your embrace,
my face hidden from the truth in your eyes.
I tremble -
as the smoke smarts my tired mind, and
the tar blackens my weary lungs.
Then -
my gaze follows the spiritual hand painting
the grey laden sky -
vermilion;
homage to the rotting dead- an elegy to the
souls of men -
sons’ like me,
accidents of war -
casualties of other men’s musings.
Like ghosts -
the moon creeps in, chasing away the glorious
effigy of its counterpart, dressing the ground
with lacy shadows – homage to the noble features
of they that lay rigid.
I inhale -
for all I am worth, the last sweet dregs of tobacco.
I douse -
slump my weary body
into the cloisters of darkness.
The Battle Cry
The cry of young men renders the air
as their feet claw the dark caked earth-
a mound to climb with a gun in their hand,
and the sun beating down from the sky.
A trembling fear their mind will suppress
as fingers hold tight to the notch-
heart beating fast as they wait the command
and the blare from the whistle rings out.
Guns rattle loud; screams pierce the earth
as shells rip at their feet,
on ‘No Man’s Land’ death stalks free,
in the form of a man’s bayonet.
Bodies fall, sweeping the earth
in the clatter of fast turning guns -
fear speeds their steps as they falteringly
surge – to the horizon’s mirage of death.
The enemy in front -
bellow -
all around -
mates twisted and mauled -
this blood sodden ground welcomes young men,
kissing their once moving lips.
Soldier of war,
whatever your rank in this ‘muck’
of hell’s baying nest, our ‘lot’ is the same -
the pain and the shame
of a life twisted by fate.
The Letter
I have lice in my hair ‘Mam’,
they run down my back
Nest in my coat
where it’s warm, and it’s black.
My feet are all puss,
scabby and sore.
Where the swirling brown water
chills my bones to the core.
The smell of my trousers
you would rather not know -
As my stomach explodes
with fear – ‘nay’ terror I cannot show.
Ӝ
My fingers are bent, ‘Mam’
from holding the gun.
They pain and they tremble-
at the thought of the Hun.
That large woolly scarf -
I have wrapped round my head
It smoothers my nose
from the odours of dread.
I can see out the corner
of my red, tired eyes.
A mate blown to pieces
now, covered in flies.
Ӝ
The lips you once kissed
are swollen and cracked.
From too little water
in this hell-hole that’s packed
With men of all ages
who are silently praying.
Begging for a miracle
to cease Satan’s baying.
To my left and my right
the commanders do shout
As a bullet flies past me
with accurate clout.
The screams, they are piercing
the dark blackened sky.
As my scared rain drenched hand
wipes a tear from my eye.
In this moment of terror
the memory returns
Of the day I enlisted...
how it still burns
The girls, they were cheering,
throwing kisses galore
And I, laughed out loud
at their flirtatious rapport.
Ӝ
To France we were posted
to fill someone’s shoes.
No questions of wherefore -
what if, or what so.
Entrenched in this ditch
of mud, blood and guts.
I think of the lying-
it haunts me so much.
I am but a boy, ‘Mam’
your child of false tongue.
The sun’s barely risen,
no eighteenth year wrung.
Lost and forsaken
I wish to be home
Safe in the arms
from which I have flown.
Ӝ
Yet, ‘Mam’ if you’re lucky
this letter to receive.
Please think not of the son
who left you that eve-
Weeping in torment
at the fate you had guessed -
Alone and afraid
at your child’s brave request.
But, turn to the hour
In a future unknown,
Where the sacrifice given
is written in stone,
And imagine a man
hewn from a youth’s face -
Who climbed up a trench-side -
His destiny- embraced.
Lady of my Heart
How are you ’Mam’, back there in old Blighty, hands in the wash-tub,
heart far from home -
swishing and swirling the clothes of your children, while dreaming
of reunion in a time yet unknown.
Gone is the laughter – replaced by a sorrow, that gnaws deep inside
a stomach displaced -
by fretting and foaming in anguish and silence, as news from the
&nbs
p; front is brought home in haste.
In the piteous mind of a mother so kind, the images of death would but grate -
repulse and repel; dark thoughts of hell
for a son in a faraway land.
I’m fine, really ’Mam’, as I write this short note, sitting next to my mate-
he has no ’Ma or Pa’ at home, not even a miserable pet.
He would love the chance of writing his thoughts
to a woman of your standing in time.
he would tell of his whims;
his desires and his sins -
that go wanting
in this river of blood.
I am counting the hours to the light of the morrow
where boys and men become one-
they strive for an honour; buried deep in each gag-
and the pride of a union flag.
Forgive me a drink, which I take to my lips -
the stench of rum at its best -
A comforting taste; a memory that’s chaste,
when these horrors into history have gone.
I bid thee farewell, sweet lady of mine,
the fairest Madonna I know-
think of that babe to your breast you once held
as my peace on you I bestow.
Prelude
Cast him a thought
in the fullness of Spring when the daffodils sway to and fro,
free from the frost with its strangling hold,
and the memory of a sun setting low.
You will watch the sun,
weak on it’s throne – as you hear his heart vibrating -
holed in a pit, narrow and long -
that son of your heart who goes wanting.
You will smile at the young,
in the way that you do,
forcing memories to escape from your mind,
of a boy you once knew,
a man far away,
in a world you condemn as deranged.
While the world is in flames,
it’s son’s borne away -
bruised by the horror and gore,
letters of love caress the eyes -
tells of a mind loosened by war.
So the heart that was yours,
now turns inside out,
as his feet find a chance to be free -
flown are the fears, the sights, and the jeers,
in this war across the blue sea.
He hears the voice,
the begging, the plea -
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