This November 11th, two poems by ex-soldier Danny Martin of Liverpool, who served two tours of duty in Iraq.
CENOTAPH
The
cenotaph
was first made
of wood;
a temporary tree
for the “Glorious Dead”.
Wood can’t hold the will
of the wolf.
So us little pigs
build in stone now, it lasts
longer. It can be added to
that monument to “the war to end all wars”
spawned more.
Portland stone
is a blank canvas.
It wants to be filled.
It craves names.
It lusts
for the chisel tip.
Danny Martin ~ 2008
(Note about Portland Stone: Portland stone is the preferred material for many war memorials, including the Cenotaph in London and the new National Arboretum in Staffordshire. During a recent visit to the Arboretum I was struck at the sheer size of its main war memorial, and the vast blank slabs waiting to be filled. – DM)
LESSONS
Do away with medals
Poppies and remembrance parades
Those boys were brave, we know
But look where it got them
Reduced to line after perfect line
Of white stones
Immobile, but glorious, exciting
To kids who haven’t yet learned
That bullets don’t make little red holes
They rip and smash and gouge
And drag the world’s dirt behind them
Remember lads, you won’t get laid
No matter how good your war stories
If you’re dead
So melt down the medals
Fuel the fire with paper poppies, war books and Arnie films
Stop playing the pipes, stop banging the drums
And stop writing fucking poems about it.
Danny Martin ~ 2008
*****
The sentiments expressed here remind me of the thoughts and words of my own father, a World War II veteran, born 1923, died 2006. A teenage farm boy conscripted as a soldier in the German Army, he and many other young men on all sides of the conflict did what they were told was their duty. And every survivor bore scars, even those who came through physically unmarked.
Dad had been wounded physically and emotionally, and though he recovered to a great degree, he personally took exception to the term “The Glorious Dead”, which is engraved – as it is on so many others across our country – on the Cenotaph in Quesnel. Every time we passed it, he would soberly say, “There is nothing glorious about war. Nothing. Anyone who tries to dress it up with words is a fool. It’s just a bunch of boys trying to kill each other, by orders of men standing out of the way of the bullets. All this fuss with the poppies and speeches is covering up the truth of what goes on in war. We are so stupid that we never learn to do things differently, just find new ways to kill each other, then cry and write poems about it.”
I never had any answer to that speech.
What can we say, those of us who haven’t walked that road?
For more: War Poetry by Danny Martin.
Leaves & Pages 
Thanks for sharing these — I wasn’t familiar with them. And I must say your Dad’s speech is very, very powerful. I feel that sentimentality takes over many of these occasions, rather than sober reflection.
There are many different ways of dealing with trauma, and my dad’s was just one of them. He had a number of war veteran friends, most of them from the “other side” of the war they all shared; some were bitter and angry on Nov. 11; some were quite happy to stand at the Cenotaph and convene at the Legion afterwards. I think it reflects individual personality – some people do seem more able to let go, or move on, or ignore the bad things they went through to a large extent. But combat/killing people/seeing people killed changes something inside a person, I believe – the scars are deep, even if buried. As a society I think we need to reflect soberly on all aspects of the conflict, but it’s hard to relate to what we haven’t gone through personally. This year there have been many radio interviews/old recordings of veterans’ experiences on CBC Radio; I think that those set the right tone. Also the words of those soldiers returning from the current conflicts. War is not history: it is in our present reality, though it is easy to ignore this in our daily, comparatively safe, North American lives.
Thank you for the comment.