Poetry analysis- Died of wounds

Poetry analysis- Died of wounds

In this poem the poet is trying to show what it is like to die of wounds in hospital. The writer was a second lieutenant of the British Special Forces in WW2, so he may have been into military hospitals and seen this happen.

My favorite feature of the poem is the way that the poet writes from a second person perspective. This helps you identify with the poem as if you were looking at it through your own eyes. I also liked the way that the dying man kept calling out to Dickie who I believe was one of the victim’s mates. In the final stanza it sounds like Dickie is killed, because the victim shouts ‘They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out’ and then the victim passes away with the friend that he is remembering.

My favourite phrase is “and it’s always raining” I think that it enhances the poem because it adds an extra note of despair from the victim.

The mood of the poem is sad and depressing. It is showing the death of a man that sacrificed his life for his country. It is also sad because the man had been brought all the way from the battle only to die painfully in the hospital.

This poem appeals to me because I believe that it shows a very real side of war that is not often thought about. The theme to this poem is the death of a wounded man. The writer uses the following poetic devices

• Rhyme such as wood and good
• Metaphor when he says “they snipe like hell”.

Different personal backgrounds can affect how you read this poem, for example if you have a family member that has died in a similar way to this, the sadness of the poem may affect you more than others who don’t relate to it as much. If you are older you might remember the time that things like this were happening in the war so it might affect you more.

Poetry analysis- Poppies

Poetry analysis- Poppies

In this poem the poet is comparing the tranquillity of nature with the carnage of war. He was showing how the soldiers sacrificed their life to “ransom” the hills of France. The poet is trying to show how France’s freedom was paid by the blood of these young men.

I like the way that the poet reflects on the war using the poppies as a symbol. He uses his poem to help us remember the people who sacrificed their lives for our freedom.

One of the parts that I liked in this poem was “the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play!” I like the way that it uses personification to show what the guns are like. I also like the way that the poet uses the word ransomed at the end of the poem showing the way that the soldier sacrificed their lives for the freedom of France.

The poem has a reflective mood; it makes the reader feel proud of what the soldiers did. It also is peaceful, making you think that the soldiers who fought are now in peace. Overall it made the soldiers in it seem like heroes.

One underlying messages in this poem is the meaning of poppies; poppies have different meanings such as death, eternal sleep and remembrance. I think that the poet used all of these meanings for this poem.

The poetic devices used in this poem are

· Metaphors such as in “liquid tune” and “shrapnel’s song”

· Personification in the “spiteful rattle” of the machine guns.

· Rhyme such as “morn” “torn”, and “blench” “trench”.

· A different tone is used in the 3^rd stanza as is starts with different wording all the others start with poppies, but the third one starts with “See the stalwart Yankee lads”

This poem can be seen differently depending on the reader’s background and beliefs. My background is that Australia was on the allies’ side and I therefore believe that the Americans were fighting for a good cause.

For people who are old enough they might remember the time and remember the horror that it really was.

Ambush

Ambush

There we were marching down a trail

The world around us had fog as a veil

We were travelling the road on the way to battle

When the sound was broken with a tremendous rattle

Everyone scattered but for some it was to late

The ones of us left were aware of their fate

Masked men came from the bush all around

And blasted us down to the ground.

By Daniel Morrow

Introduction

I chose war because it is a subject that is very relevant in the world today. Many people are affected by war whether directly or indirectly. In politics today war is a prominent topic and every county in the world is effected by it. I also chose war because it inspires a certain level of pride and admiration from us. In this assignment I learnt that it is a lot harder than I thought to write poetry. I think that this has been a challenging assignment and I enjoyed it a lot. My favourite poem is Poppies and my favourite line in it is “Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play!” I love this part of the poem because it is the first time that anything to do with war is heard in the poem.

In the Heart of Battle

In the Heart of Battle

My cover is just a fallen tree

Kneeling behind it with my gun my knee

The forest destroyed form artillery fire

The only thing left is splinters and wire

A man sprints past

And I take a quick blast

There is not long to wait till the tanks arrive

So we gotta hold out and we've gotta strive

I see my mate Jim make a dash for some colours

A few shots and he's down, like the others

But then over the hill comes the lumbering tanks

I slump to the ground and give god my thanks

By Daniel Morrow

Dogfight

Dogfight

High in the sky with his engine alight

Another few minutes could end his flight

He screams in the radio I'm hit, I'm hit

And starts to lose power bit by bit

He knows they have lost

Payed the ultimate cost

The squadron in tatters

None else really matters

The nose starts to dive

As he falls from the skies

A victim of conflict; of War

By Daniel Morrow

Death in the trenches Pod cast

Death in the trenches

His Cold wet hand still clutching his gun

Feeling alone; he is but one

His helmet is still upon his head

Left for lost and yet not quite dead

They had the enemy on the run

Then some man shoots him down with a gun

The trench around him may be his grave

Dyeing for those he hopes to save

The world around him starts to blur

His heart goes out to them and her

He gasps in air for one last breath

Them slips quietly into death

By Daniel Morrow

Warfare

Warfare

Whirring of the Choppers

Arrival of the Medics

Rattling of machine guns

Firing of the Tanks

Anguish of the wounded men

Raining of the artillery fire

Engagement of the infantry

By Daniel Morrow

In Flanders field

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

British Soldier's Discharge Song

British Soldier's Discharge Song

When the fighting was at its fiercest

And everything looked black

This was the promise that cheered us on

'You'll get your old job back!'

We were not professional soldiers

Fighting was not our game

We were only peaceful citizens

Who fought hard just the same

We sacrificed our wives and kids

And homes to do our bit

But now the door is closed to us

It seems hard, we admit

For I can't get the old job

And can't get a new

Can't carry on as I used to do

I look around me, and what do I see?

Thousands and thousands of fellows

A lot worse off than me

In Piccadilly, friends pass me by

I'm absolutely stranded in the Strand

And I confess I was contented, more or less

When I was stony broke in No Man's Land

Died of Wounds

Died of Wounds

His wet white face and miserable eyes Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell His troubled voice: he did the business well. The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining And calling out for ‘Dickie’. ‘Curse the Wood! ‘It’s time to go. O Christ, and what’s the good? ‘We’ll never take it, and it’s always raining.’ I wondered where he’d been; then heard him shout, ‘They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out... I fell asleep ... Next morning he was dead; And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed. Siegfried Sassoon

Aftermath

Aftermath

Have you forgotten yet?... For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways: And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game... Have you forgotten yet?... Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget. Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz-- The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench-- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?' Do you remember that hour of din before the attack-- And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? Have you forgotten yet?... Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget. Siegfried Sassoon

Poppies

POPPIES

CAPT. JOHN MILLS HANSON, F.A.
IN The Stars And Stripes, A.E.F., France

POPPIES in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France,
Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance;
Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune--
Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June.

Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers--
Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play!
Over them the shrapnel's song greets the summer morn--
Poppies in the wheat fields--but, ah, the fields are torn.

See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench,
Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench,
Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread
Through the poppied wheat field to the flaming woods ahead.

Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun,
Broken, bruised and trampled--but the bitter day is won;
Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine,
With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line,

Poppies in the wheat fields; how' still beside them lie
Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high;
Gently bending o'er them beneath the moon's soft glance,
Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France

Spring Offensive

Spring Offensive

Halted against the shade of a last hill,
They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease
And, finding comfortable chests and knees
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.

Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,
For though the summer oozed into their veins
Like the injected drug for their bones' pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.

Hour after hour they ponder the warm field --
And the far valley behind, where the buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,
Where even the little brambles would not yield,
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands;
They breathe like trees unstirred.

Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste --
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun, --
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.

So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence' brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink.
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames --
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder --
Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

Anthem for Doomed Youth

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

By Wilfred Owen

Charge of the Light Brigade

Charge of the Light BrigadeAlfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
`Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said:
Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.

`Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
ome one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Dulce et Decorum est

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. --
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

By Wilfred Owen

Song of the Soldiers

Song of the Soldiers

by Charles G. Halpine

Comrades known in marches many,

Comrades, tried in dangers many,

Comrades, bound by memories many,

Brothers let us be.

Wounds or sickness may divide us,

Marching orders may divide us,

But whatever fate betide us,

Brothers of the heart are we.

Comrades, known by faith the clearest,

Tried when death was near and nearest,

Bound we are by ties the dearest,

Brothers evermore to be.

And, if spared, and growing older,

Shoulder still in line with shoulder,

And with hearts no thrill the colder,

Brothers ever we shall be.

By communion of the banner,

Crimson, white, and starry banner,

By the baptism of the banner,

Children of one Church are we.

Creed nor faction can divide us,

Race nor language can divide us

Still, whatever fate betide us,

Children of the flag are we.

The yellow gas

THE YELLOW GAS
by Christopher Brennan

The yellow gas is fired from street to street
past rows of heartless homes and hearths unlit,
dead churches, and the unending pavement beat
by crowds - say rather, haggard shades that flit

Round nightly haunts of their delusive dream,
where'er our paradisal instinct starves: -
till on the utmost post, its sinuous gleam
crawls in the oily water of the wharves;

Where Homer's sea loses his keen breath, hemm'd
what place rebellious piles were driven down -
the priestlike waters to this task condemn'd
to wash the roots of the inhuman town! -

Where fat and strange-eyed fish that never saw
the outer deep, broad halls of sapphire light,
glut in the city's draught each nameless maw:
- and there, wide-eyed unto the soulless night,

Methinks a drown'd maid's face might fitly show
what we have slain, a life that had been free,
clean, large, nor thus tormented - even so
as are the skies, the salt winds and the sea.

Ay, we had saved our days and kept them whole,
to whom no part in our old joy remains,
had felt those bright winds sweeping thro' our soul
and all the keen sea tumbling in our veins,

Had thrill'd to harps of sunrise, when the height
whitens, and dawn dissolves in virgin tears,
or caught, across the hush'd ambrosial night,
the choral music of the swinging spheres,

Or drunk the silence if nought else - But no!
and from each rotting soul distil in dreams
a poison, o'er the old earth creeping slow,
that kills the flowers and curdles the live streams,

That taints the fresh breath of re-risen day
and reeks across the pale bewildered moon:
- shall we be cleans'd and how? I only pray,
red flame or deluge, may that end be soon!

The Troops with pod-cast

The Troops Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down The stale despair of night, must now renew Their desolation in the truce of dawn, Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, Can grin through storms of death and find a gap In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky That hastens over them where they endure Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. O my brave brown companions, when your souls Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, Death will stand grieving in that field of war Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; The unreturning army that was youth; The legions who have suffered and are dust. Siegfried Sassoon

Safety

SAFETY

Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,
And heard our word, "Who is so safe as we?"
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.

We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

By Rupert Brooke

Channel firing

Channel Firing
Thomas Hardy


That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgement-day

And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worm drew back into the mounds,

The glebe cow drooled. Till God cried, "No;
It's gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:

"All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.

"That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them's a blessed thing,
For if it were they'd have to scour
Hell's floor for so much threatening. . . .

"Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need)."

So down we lay again. "I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,"
Said one, "than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!"

And many a skeleton shook his head.
"Instead of preaching forty year,"
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
"I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer."

Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.

Death

Death
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.

By William Butler Yeats