Written in honor of the fallen upon the fields of foreign soil; as a tribute to the poets of World War I, whose elegiac, somber, transcendent words beg us to read and ponder still their meaning; and to all of the other souls whose lives and words were changed forever by that sad conflict. The poem also references what I know of the participation of Alexander “Lee” Summers, Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, Scotland, my mother’s father, and who by some unaccounted miracle survived his service during the Battles of the Dardanelles and Gallipoli.
I was not a soldier
but for the wailing truth,
that touched the frail fingers
of my late-born grasp
of bitter fruit
within the stale mud.
It sluiced my brothers
of another age now passed,
to pale remnants of scudding
souls within the many
tiers of muck. Held fast
upon their soggy biers,
one upon another made
of mothers’ tears, and traded
to that flood that raised
the floating dreck and blood
to heaven’s noble ark unsung.
And buried now as one
in earthen lore
and waving violets,
their souls with turf
and peckish starlings soar.
Listen to a recitation of this poem…
here… I Was Not A Soldier
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