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 Guests PoetryWar Poetry, especially that of the Great War, has been an essential part of the philosophy of BBJ since the inception of the company and we find that the reading of an appropriate poem or devotional writing at the grave or memorial of a long - dead loved one brings comfort to a troubled heart and inspires emotions hitherto unknown. Many of our travellers, whose literary aspirations are uplifted by their battlefield experiences, feel the desire to express their emotions in personal poetry and to share their writings with us. All their poetry has a story to tell and most has a grandeur and warmth which we feel needs a wider audience. Here at Poets Corner we offer poems presented to us by guests who have journeyed with us over the years. In reading the verses you can experience a little of the wonder that is the Western Front. Read on and enjoy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Laura McClintic from Lincolnshire was 13 years old when she first travelled with BBJ and her school to the battlefields of Belgium and Northern France. There she found herself quite overwhelmed by the number of graves of unknown soldiers.
My Unknown Soldier Three years ago I found you In a most methodical way. I'm glad to be here once again, Just so that I can say: Hello my unknown soldier, My comfort and my friend. You are my continuity, Though your life is at an end I'm sitting here and thinking About the life you gave; You fought for your people and country, And now lie in your grave. While I've been living my busy life, You've been sleeping on; For three years you've been my influence,  Even though you're dead and gone. In these three years I've thought of you, Lying there unknown; A serendipity meeting And the friendship seeds are sown. Although we know not of each other, And I live in another land, I see your face in times of trouble, And you, smiling, take my hand. Many men have crosses Or wreaths about their stone; I place my simple cross, So you'll never be alone. So thank you, my unknown soldier, My comfort and my friend; You will be my continuity Until my life is at an end. Laura McClintic. Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Jean Stoner travelled with BBJ in April 2002 to pay her respects at the grave of a beloved and long dead relative at Longuenesse (St. Omer) Souvenir cemetery. After her visit, she composed this lovely piece, which has long been a favourite and which has proved a source of comfort to many over the years. You Could Not Know
Jean Stoner. Buckingham ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------In 2007, Isobel Lyman and her husband Michael travelled to the battle sites of the Western Front accompanied by our guide, Mike Kelly. Their purpose was to retrace the the path of Corporal Henry Regan of the Royal Scots who fought and fell in Northern France. At Duisans British Cemetery they honoured the memory of this gallant young man and later Isobel presented her guide with a poem first published in June 1917. The poem was inserted in the Midlothian Advertiser by Corporal Regan's parents, his brothers and sisters only a month after his death and one can only imagine the anguish of their broken hearts. The Fallen
In memory of Henry REGAN Jay Oakes of Glendon, Queensland, Australia, travelled with BBJ on a “pilgrimage of a lifetime” in 2007. Standing at the Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing, Jay thought back over the life and death of his great uncle and later composed a poem, “Some Mother's Son”. It deserves to be known to all who intend to make, or who may have already made, their own personal journey of remembrance. Some Mother's Son A game of football, A shared cigarette, A truce that didn't hold and save.......... Some Mother's Son Some Mother's Son. Rolling fields of red poppies, too many to count. Like the men who fell and died there. They all were......... Some Mother's Son, Some Mother's Son. Kneeling before a headstone, A soldier's name, the day he fell and his age so very young. A wave of emotion is felt for...... A Mother's Son, A Mother's Son. An empty grave, marked by a headstone to say a soldier was removed to the place from which he sailed. He is the Unknown Soldier, Known only to God, but he was....... Some Mother's Son, Some Mother's Son. Many names upon a wall, Of young men who will never be found. A bugle is sounded, Flags are lowered, In Remembrance for...... Some Mother's Son, Some Mother's Son. Jay Oakes, Queensland, Australia. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Jan Somers, a Belgian friend living in Flanders, recently wrote to us and included a small poem which he offers as a complement to John McCrae's world- renowned poem, “In Flanders Fields”. It is a tender piece clearly written from the heart, and it is well deserving of a place here in our Poet's Corner. In Flanders Fields Where it was that the poppies blow Remembrance makes respect, to grow and grow. It yields a memory there to stay To those who died. I don't know what to say. To all the men, who lost their lives, Brought grief to mothers, children and their wives, We must, we must, Put prayers to every tree. Jan Somers. Belgium. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Trefor Jones is a firm friend and travelling companion who is engaged by BBJ as a researcher and spends long hours at The National Archives. Much of the documentation presented to guests during their journeys with the company is the product of his research. He has also spent several years studying the epitaphs on the First World War headstones in cemeteries of the Western Front, an exercise which has culminated in a book entitled “ On Fame's Eternal Camping Ground”, containing a selection of over 1500 of the most moving and unusual tributes from the families of the deceased. Copies of the book can be ordered elsewhere on this website. Some time ago Trefor sent me a poem which combines his twin interests of cricket and the First World War. Entitled “The Cricketers of Flanders” and written by James Norman Hall, a co- author of “Mutiny on the Bounty”, it is included here in Poets Corner. The Cricketers of Flanders. The first to climb the parapet With 'cricket–ball' in either hand; The first to vanish in the smoke Of God-forsaken No-Man's land. First at the wire and soonest through, First at those re-mouthed hounds of hell The Maxims, and the first to fall - They do their bit, and do it well. Full sixty yards I've seen them throw With all that nicety of aim They learned on British cricket-fields. Ah! Bombing is a Briton's game! Shell-hole, trench to trench, 'Lobbing them over'. With an eye As true as though it were a game, And friends were having tea close by. Pull down some art-offending thing Of carven stone, and in its stead Let splendid bronze commemorate These men, the living and the dead. No figure in heroic size Towering skyward like a god; But just a lad who might have stepped From any British bombing squad. His shrapnel helmet set a-tilt, His bombing waistcoat sagging low, His rifle slung across his back: Poised in the very act to throw. And let some raven legend tell Of those weird battles in the West Wherein he put old skill to use And played old games with sterner zest. Thus should he stand, reminding those In less believing days, perchance, How Britain's fighting cricketers Helped bomb the Germans out of France. And other eyes than ours would see; And other hearts than ours would thrill, And others say, as we have said: 'A sportsman and a soldier still!' James Norman Hall. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------David met Diane Follet entirely by chance at Tyne Cot Cemetery on the occasion of the commemoration of the 90th Anniversary of the Battle of Passchendaele, and after a few minutes of conversation it was as if they had known each other for years. Diane, an Australian lady now living in France, was tending the grave of 2nd Lt. Jack Larkin of the Australian Imperial Force, and she explained that he and her late husband Bob had volunteered for military service in the Great War and had travelled to the U.K. together before moving on to Belgium. Whilst on leave in England they had visited Jack's relatives in Lincoln, coincidentally within a few miles of our present office. Jack was killed by a sniper's bullet at Zonnebeke during the Battle of Passchendaele, a sorrow which was to remain with Bob for the rest of his life. In the following years, Bob was to relate to Diane his life's story, with especial emphasis upon his adventures in World War One, and she transcribed his stories into a book entitled “ Time Will Tell: Memories of a Kangaroo Point Kid”. In 1992, to complement the book, Diane composed a poem, “The Flags of Glory”, which she has passed to us and which we share with you now. The Flags of Glory The banners of the past hang limp and lifeless, stained and torn, And scream softly of their faded glory which once was worn In battle known to history. Teachers tell of of days of yore, And children listen to the tales of gore. Where is the glory? To learn, to teach, to live, to die - All in Life's classroom, where knowledge is nigh. The pews in the church, the rows in the school, Living by the Golden Rule. He marched to school. He marched to War. To Glory? The old dead Latin drill: Pro patria mori. No more to Lincoln, turn your head - Lie in your row. Now you are dead. Fly one for John, Scholar and son. Gentleman, friend, Unto the end. Diane Melloy - Follet. Vieux-Berquin, France. Dedicated to 2nd Lieutenant Jack Larkin 41st Battalion AIF, of Queensland. State School Teacher. Born in Brisbane. Son of James and Sarah Anne Larkin of Indooroopilly. Killed in the attack on Passchendaele. 4th October 1917, aged 20 years and 9 months.. Buried at Tyne Cot Cemetery, Belgium. Plot LVII, Row F, Grave 11. Rest In Peace. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tony Nutkins is a close friend and a true devotee of the Great War. He travels with me regularly and together, with his wife Lynne, we have shared many memorable adventures. Knowledgeable without measure about the affairs of the Western Front, he is also a gifted poet who has written over the years, many pieces to inspire the most ardent traveller. He recently presented me with a poem which I particularly admire and I offer it to you now as a lovely example of Tony's art. The Old Man Next Door He was only an ordinary soldier. Private, infantry, one of the line. He'd served seven years when they sent him to France Via Le Havre and Mauberge, just in time. To Mons with it's pits and it's slag heaps, The canal with it's bridges across. He stood and he stopped the bold Germans, Shouldered arms turned about , ordered off. The retreat was hard on the soldier With rearguards and actions to fight. But he marched and he fought and slept little; Never asked if the Generals were right. At the Marne he turned and saw action Chased the Germans right up to the Aisne. There he fought and retired to rest billets And then started marching again. Up to Ypres with it's spires and it's towers, Which the Germans were keen to destroy. But he fought them and held the position With the remains of the Old Army deployed. He marched and he fought at Neuve Chapelle, Cuinchy, Festubert, Aubers and Loos. And he stuck with the mud and the hardship For it wasn't his option to choose. Back to Ypres, and then the great battle, Farther south on the river, the Somme. Through the woods, lives and villages shattered, Never questioning when things went wrong. In the line or at rest, or in training, Working parties, fatigues and patrol; Armentieres, Arras and Amiens, Wherever, he did what was told. Back to the towns in the salient, To Passchendale, Poelderhoek, Hooge, Hellfire Corner, Menin and Langemark, And in Pop for a night on the booze. Ordered south in '18 he retreated Back across the old Somme battlefield. And he still never questioned his orders, Never thought the Old Army would yield. Then in August he started advancing And to Mons he eventually came back. And they told him the war, it was over, Stand easy; no further attack. And he looked at the men all around him And saw none who'd been with him before When they'd stopped the German advance there. He's the last of the original Corps. His mates lie in France and in Flanders And list of the names is so long. But he still sees the faces and hears them; On the marches, in billets, in song...... And he'll never forget his four years there, What he saw, what he felt, what he did. And he'll never discuss it with strangers, Or his family, the wife and the kid. His medals he keeps in the sideboard With his papers, his badge and pay book. “It's done”, he says, “No need for talking”. But he lets it slip every so often, and today, he let me take a look. Then we sat and he told me his stories, In his own way with no dressing up. And I sat there enthralled for some hours, And the char came up, cup after cup. And I'll never forget the Old Soldier, Or those like him who died far away. And I'll make sure that others remember For our tomorrows, they gave their today. Tony Nutkins. Northolt. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Ceri Ree and her son Patrick travelled with us to follow in the footsteps of her uncle, 2nd. Lt. Arthur Morgan, who enlisted at the age of 19 yrs and was to receive a commission in the field in 1918. Arthur sustained a gun shot wound in the hand which removed most of his knuckles but he considered himself lucky to survive the war with such a “minor” wound. As the war drew to its close Arthur was transferred to the Salonika campaign and was discharged in 1923. A gifted and warm hearted poet he wrote many pieces of worth after the War. The two we present here are considered by Ceri to be amongst his finest. On Remembrance Sunday A poem by Arthur Robert Morgan. Arthur was born on the 1st of August 1895, served with RWF 1915 (Sergeant) onwards. Commissioned to 2nd Lieutenant 25 September 1918. A trumpet sounds Reveille loud and clear Two minutes pass into eternity In the solemness of silent prayer Visions bitter sweet are borne to me Cemeteries of service men, a poppy wreath White crosses glistening in the sun Symbols of a faith true unto death And the price of freedom dearly won. Grey haired and wan we now grow old In memory lane meet absent friends Comrades again the meek and bold Marching to glory where the rainbow ends. In Flanders Fields where the poppies blend With shrapnel’s screech and big guns thud Sharing the draws on a last fag end In a dugout deep beneath the mud. At zero hour the barrage lifts, We press on to the flaming ridge ahead Taking it, the battle centre shifts We stand to with our wounded and our dead. Dead! And closed forever those steadfast eyes No more to see the sun, the winding trail Thro’ growing corn, to rainbows in the skies Gone like a withered leaf before an Autumn gale For this is war it’s glories torn apart The Heavens re-echo with it’s shame, And God looks down with an aching heart On the carnage wrought in His Holy Name. They live! These comrades we mourn as dead Immortal souls upon another sphere Like a star, a shining light they shed To guide us through that slough of fear. And this to them my last Amen Each evening I’ll light a candle for you Till that morning dawns when we meet again. Also by Arthur Morgan A POPPY
There is a growing awareness in the USA of the role played by American troops in the Great War and we at BBJ now undertake several 14-day study tours of the Western Front each year. The students, all retired, consider the political and military aspects in some depth and visit areas of action involving all the Allied and German participants. They spend 5 days in the Ypres Salient before travelling the entire Western Front to Verdun. Whilst the highly decorated or famous are sometimes the focus of attention for visitors to the cemeteries, Marilyn Restione was so touched and overwhelmed by the sheer number of unknown graves that she felt compelled to pen the following; “HERE RESTS IN HONOURED GLORY” Unknown Soldier I knelt and touched the warm, wet grass beside your cross… and in that quiet moment felt your hand brush mine- Time seemed to stretch and split and there you were in front of me- The years had washed away your pain, your tears, the ugly wounds that tore you from your life- There you were – clean and shining, whole, innocent again. A miracle of sweet remembrance- in an instant – gone but knowing you, at last I can let you sleep. Unknown, no longer – not to me. Marilyn Restione ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Silent Cities They call them Silent Cities These rows of standing stones These lines of Portland soldiers Which once were all our boys I walked these Silent Cities But could never be alone For me they were not silent In each I heard a noise A whispering, a murmuring What can this be I thought It came not to the ears But quietly, no fuss It said, “You see us not You for whom we fought You see the stones but Still you do not see us” Until that one bright morn I looked once more and then As shadows grew from stones to lawn It was then I saw the men With my eyes I saw the stones The numbers and much more, But in that summer’s heat With my mind’s eye now open I know now that I saw Those men beneath my feet So if you should chance to visit A Silent City street As you go, just say “Hello” To the lad beneath your feet. Mike Edwards, Inspired by the lines of shadows cast by the headstones at a cemetery on the Somme.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Theresa Horsler’s interest in writing poetry was rekindled by the atmosphere and emotions drawn from her experience visiting the battlefields with BBJ. For the first time in 10 years she was inspired to write the following in memory of her ancestors:
James Herbert Child Theresa Horsler
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Tom Scott made his first pilgrimage to the battlefields of the Great War as a student with Queen Elizabeth's Grammar School, Horncastle. At Ploegsteert Wood Military Cemetery he found himself enthralled by the serenity of the place and by the sombre trees of the surrounding wood. He confessed that the atmosphere entered his very soul and later he felt inspired to write his poem. The poem was so well received that two years later, he was invited by the Rev. Canon Ray Jones, Chaplain of St. Georges Memorial Church, Ypres, to return to Flanders to attend the funeral of a soldier of the First World War, whose remains were to be buried with full military honours. Tom was there asked to read his poem before the dignified assembly.
Tom Scott -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After a visit to Thiepval Memorial which contains the names of nearly 73,000 British Soldiers who have no known grave.
They never found his body, Ninety years after WWI, thousands of tons of ordinance and scrap are recovered each year from the battlefields of France and Belgium. On occasion the body of a soldier is still recovered.
He put the plow into the ground,
We honor the Lost Battalion, so many laid to rest, Are they not also heroes, who survived the test, Abe Tobin came a marching home after many battles fought Sherman Eager fought here too, amongst the Argonne trees. Pasquale “James” Ilardo, a young man, immigrant from Sicily He too went home and mother found, wreath upon the door. Granddaughter Jeanie is here today to pay respect to him
The Last One Laid To Rest
He never really understood how big the job would be He buried those who gave their lives for the man upon the throne, For days on end, run into weeks, and then the months went by, He and his mates kept digging, from dawn to setting sun They laid them in a pattern, in rows, there in the ground, Some stones gave name and regiment, some “A soldier of the Great War,” And when the war had ended, the bodies still they came, He prayed for strength and courage, to match up to the test.
The Wrong Side of the Cross
He left the 3rd of April, 1917, He promised he’d return again He didn’t come back to claim her, In countless cemeteries, she tread upon the sod Reading names on Stars and Crosses,
Pennie Rich Publishing
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I was pleased to accompany Jacqueline Walles on her journey of a lifetime with B.B.J. in October, 2008. Our group formed immediate bonds of friendship which will never be forgotten and when it came for us to part, Jackie presented me with the following poems which she had composed herself.
For Those Who Didn't Come Home
Oh Lord, I pray for those poor men today Whose souls, long since, have found peace with you, Men? No, boys! Who when they went away Knew naught of drowning in mud and clay And looked on war as an adventure new. No knowledge yet of what it really meant To fight in trenches or go over the top But they soon learned, when they were sent To replace others whose lives were spent In mindless horror that never seemed to stop. "It's my turn next" Christ!, He'll never make it. He should have been allowed to stay at home, No evil there to take his life and break it Like a fragile shell and make it Bleed in this once peaceful land they call The Somme
2005
Perc. (on the march to the front line trenches)
What'll yer do when it's over Perc? This little lot I mean. Can't look that far ahead Joe, Got to get to the end of this walk. Will the fightin' be bad, do yer think Perc? 'Cause last night I 'ad a dream. Can't say I know about that Joe But I've heard the old hands and their talk.
'Ow far do yer think it is now Perc? Don't think I can 'ang on too long. Just keep on slogging along Joe, Just think of your folk at home. Do yer reckon they're thinkin' o' us Perc? Do they realise now that it's wrong? I'm sure we are in their prayers Joe And therefore we're not on our own.
'Ave yer bin in the trenches afore Perc? They say yer can drown in the mud. We'll be finding that out for ourselves Joe When we finally get to the line. They say the noise is 'orrendous Perc, With the bombs fallin' thud after thud. Don't start worrying yet Joe, Stick to me and we'll get on just fine.
Well, we got 'ere to the trenches Perc, When do we go over the top? Probably dawn tomorrow Joe, Whenever the officers call. Are yer as scared as me Perc? Can't get this shakin' to stop. Yes, I am as scared as you Joe, Don't look forward to climbing that wall.
Thanks for bein' me pal Perc, I'm lucky I 'ad someone like you. I'll get you back to the trench Joe, And see what the medics can do. Will yer write to me Mam & Dad Perc? Tell 'em I did me best? I'll tell them you are a hero Joe And passed the ultimate test.
June 2007
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