Esteemed crew of the Broken Binnacle,
Another melancholic poem for you on this fine Friday. Shortly after posting this, I will be meeting “the boys” of the Binnacle this evening at an undisclosed location where we will continue to hatch further plans to take over the world (oh, and also to keep TBB content rolling your way, of course). But seriously, we have high hopes for this little project.
For those of you who follow the Broken Binnacle on Instagram, you’ll recognize this poem (I simply failed to post it on the blog simultaneously). I don’t know why I write poems about WWI and WWII more than most other topics. Perhaps it’s because there’s still so much poetic-aesthetic debris from the Wars in our recent history and culture. Plus, it was just a crazy time—not to mention, a very tragic and painful time. But tragedy and pain are great ingredients for amateur poets such as I.
That said, this poem follows the story of a young British army soldier by the name of Thomas as he engages in an attack of the German front during the Battle of the Somme. As the attack begins, his desperate fear is superseded by a vision of times gone by, namely, a fond memory of him and his wife, Ruth, at Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire, England (the county where my grandmother was raised and lived during WWII). The blissful memories blend with the death and the doom around him and suddenly he himself is shot and left to bleed out on the battlefield. Bleeding memories of berries, Bolton, and Ruth. I hope you enjoy!
Also, Matt is next up to bat for posting, so get ready for some quality content.
The Berries by Bolton Abbey
The shriek of whistles blow
Shouts and clashes follow
Bullets fly
Gatling’s rattle
Whistling shells explode
“Up and forward, to the line!” —"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!" — “Thomas, to my side!” — “The smokes too thick" — The young man cries — “It’s the Kitchener’s Army crew” — The screaming shells — “Do yer part!” — Ka-ka-ka-kaboom! — “Jesus Christ!” — “Damn German guns!” — “My hand’s been shot right through!”
Panting breath
Silent death
Pounding
Fearful hearts
~
The voices sound like echoes
Down a dark hallway of stone
Slipping feet
Shaking hands
As shoulders breach the slope
Muddy is the ladder
Clumsily I climb
“By God, what am I doing here?!”
“We’ve surely lost our minds.”
~
It was only yesterday
Or at least it felt that way
That Ruth and I had gone that day
To visit Bolton Abbey
If only I was there again
I’d wash my muddy boots
By the river running through the grounds of Bolton Abbey
~
That edifice of stone
Like a lion deep asleep
Waits to wake and set us free
From the lies that made this War
Yet now it seems a carcass
A skeletal defeat
And in my doubt
I cry
Dear Lord
Will it ever be a-more?
~
We’d been picking berries
Ruth and I
For pie
The thorns had grasped us
Like the wire:
Barbed upon this field
Where men are caught
Are stuck
And shot
Those hapless, dying cries
~
The blood
Like juice upon my hands
From picking Bolton’s berries
~
“Where you go, I will go”
Ruth had said to me
“Where you die, I will die”
“Together we’ll be buried.”
The words had struck my stolid heart
They brought me to new life
~
But now I lay here in the mud
A bullet to the chest
And die with thoughts of Bolton Abbey
Amid the battle strife
“Epiquote”:
“I am, indeed, entirely unable to understand how anybody with even a rudimentary knowledge of history can fail to perceive that a man's love for his wife, children or country, his feeling of honor, his sense of duty, his willingness to sacrifice himself for some idea or ideal, or perhaps the repercussions produced in his soul by a beautiful sunset are quite as likely to influence the shaping of our political reality as-let us say-a piece of labor legislation. Thousands of the most modern tanks will be of no use for the defense of a country, if the men in these tanks are unwilling to fight for their country to the end. The best laws, the most progressive legislation, are not worth the paper on which they are written, if the moral qualities of the judges who have to apply them are doubtful." (Fritz G. Kraemer)