WarPoetsAssociation

@yesknow @TheFigen_ Beautiful! I recall making this journey on a motobike 57 years ago; Lima to Cuzco was a real climb; on to Puno passed lovely Lake Titicaca, highest in the world...

The train journey from Cusco to Puno is a popular and scenic route that takes you through the heart of the Peruvian Andes. This luxurious train journey typically takes approximately 10.5 hours and covers a distance of about 388 kilometres. The train ride is renowned for its stunning panoramic views of the Andes, rolling plains, and traditional villages.

An ordinary morning on the Tokyo subway.

Pour out your bounty, moon of radiant shining On all this shattered flesh, these quiet forms: For these were slain, so strangely still reclining, In the noblest cause was ever waged with arms.

"Requiem" by Ivor Gurney Pour out your light, O stars, and do not hold Your loveliest shining from earth's outworn shell - Pure and cold your radiance, pure and cold My dead friend's face as well.

Glad in the glory of fellowship, happy in misery, strong In the strength that laughs at its weakness, laughs at its sorrows and fears, Facing the world that was not too kind with a jest and a song? What can the world hold afterwards worthy of laughter or tears? Edward de Stein

“Envoi” How shall I say goodbye to you, wonderful, terrible days, If I should live to live and leave ‘neath an alien soil You, my men, who taught me to walk with a smile in the ways Of the valley of shadows, taught me to know you and love you, and toil

This is, alas, my farewell posting of WWI poems. Starting with Owen for the WOA in March 2020, then continuing daily for WPA, with Gurney, women poets, and a host of almost unknown poets, whose dedication to their country deserves recognition. Anyone else to take up the baton?

Yet sing! For at thy song The tall trees stand up straight and strong And stretch their twisted arms. And smoke ascends from pleasant farms And the shy flowers their odours give. Once more the riven pastures smile, And for a while We live. Edward de Stein, France, May, 1916.

How canst thou sing while Nature lies Bleeding and torn beneath thine eyes, And the foul breath Of rank decay hangs like a shroud Over the fields the shell hath ploughed? How canst thou sing, so gay and glad, Whilst all the heavens are filled with death And all the world is mad?

After Eton and Oxford, Edward de Stein, who wrote "Bingo our Trench Dog", rose to the rank of Major, serving on the Western Front for all WWI “To a Skylark Behind Our Trenches” Thou little voice! Thou happy sprite How didst thou gain the air and light— That sing'st so merrily?

Yet now those men lay stubborn courage by, Riding dull-eyed and silent in the train To old men's stools; or sell gay-coloured socks And listen fearfully for Death; so I Love the low-laughing girls, who now again Go daintily, in thin and flowery frocks.

And seeing cool nurses move on tireless feet To do abominable things with grace, Deemed them sweet sisters in that haunted place Where, with child's voices, strong men howl or bleat.

“War and Peace” by Edgell Rickword In sodden trenches I have heard men speak, Though numb and wretched, wise and witty things; And loved them for the stubbornness that clings Longest to laughter when Death's pulleys creak;

Those who watched with hoary eyes saw two figures gleaming there; Hauptmann Kälte, Colonel Cold, gaunt in the grey air. Stiffly, tinkling spurs they moved, glassy-eyed, with glinting heel stabbing those who lingered there torn by screaming steel.

Visited a forward post, left them burning, ear to foot; fingers stuck to biting steel, toes to frozen boot. Stalked on into No Man’s Land, turned the wire to fleecy wool, iron stakes to sugar sticks snapping at a pull.

Rickword joined the Artist Rifles as soon as he became 18, in 1916, won the MC and wrote war poetry. In 1919 he lost an eye through septicaemia, then went up to Oxford, but left after four terms to get married.

Thou canst return no more; Not as the happy time of spring Comes after winter burgeoning On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art dead. Our tears we shed In vain, for thou Dost pace another shore, Untroubled now. Victor Perowne

Another Arcady May thee receive. Not here thou dost remain, Thou art gone far away, Where, at the portals of the day, The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng, While Time looks on, And seraphs stand Choiring an endless strain On either hand.

Joining the Scots Guards when he left Eton in 1916, Perowne served the war, and became a diplomat. “A Dirge” Thou art no longer here, No longer shall we see thy face, But, in that other place, Where may be heard The roar of the world rushing down the wantways of the stars;