The OFF Poetry Corner

[RAF_Louvert 101]

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As I noted before Slarti, that bit of prose has a fine, honest quality. Keep writing Sir.

 

Dej, that verse by Henley is on my favorites list. And very poignant indeed, given the circumstances. Thanks for sharing Sir.

 

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[Olham 164]

Today I had a quite unsettling feeling, when I went through the "Reports from the Front";

I had a faint idea of someone with no shape behind my right shoulder, looking at the same things

as me (and I felt rather than I saw it) with a knowing smile.

It was very short, cause I guess I shook it off; I stood up from my chair and walked over to

the kitchen, to get me a fresh cup of coffee. I had goose skin for minutes after that.

 

Little later, I opened "Editor" and began to write this down.

I did my best to also write a (free) translation, so you may understand what I felt.

You must know, that the German word for sky is the same as for heaven - "Himmel".

Perhaps I can pass the goose skin on to you.

 

Himmel über Flandern

 

Hoch über Kratern, Kälte, Schlamm und Tod

zieh'n wir dahin, so leicht wie Nebelschwaden

Wir sind wie Wolken, sind die ohne Not.

Ihr kennt uns als gefall'ne Kameraden.

 

Wir fliegen mit euch, ohne Angst noch Pein,

wir sind bei euch, wenn ihr fliegt ins Verderben

Wir halten euch die Hand, wenn ihr dann fallt,

und heissen euch willkommen nach dem Sterben.

 

In unsrer Welt am Himmel über Flandern,

in der kein Schmerz ist, keine Müdigkeit,

flieg nun mit mir, und grüß' auch all die andern

und lass uns frei und froh sein - ohne Zeit.

 

 

Skies/Heaven over Flanders

 

High above trenches, craters, cold and death

we drift ahead, as light as veils of vapour

We are like clouds, are those who have no needs

You know us as the fallen comrades

 

We're flying with you, with no fear nor pain,

We are with you, when you fly to perdition

We hold your hands, when you then finally fall,

and bid you welcome after your cruel dying.

 

In our world in the skies high above Flanders,

in which there is no suffering, no fatigue,

fly now with me, and salutate the others,

and let's be free and bright - and timeless.

Edited July 31, 2011 by Olham

[Shiloh 12]

Very touching Olham - I will have to read a few more times for the full effect but I do like it very much.

[Slartibartfast 153]

Wonderful Prose there Herr Olham...

[Dej 17]

Ausgezeichnet, Olham.

[Olham 164]

Oh, thanks a lot, guys!

[RAF_Louvert 101]

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Herrlich mitreißende, Olham! Very well written, mein freund.

 

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[Olham 164]

Thank you very much, Lou !

[carrick58 23]

Nice

[Javito1986 14]

Hi, hi! I wrote on here in April/May that I was considering working on some WW1 historical fiction short stories I may end up self-publishing online in some distant time called "someday". Right now I'm busily working away at a different major creative writing project's revision which is due in October so 99% of my efforts are focused on that.

 

Hemingway would always say it's bad luck and unprofessional to show your stuff in progress, or even discuss it too much (and he felt appropriately guilty himself when he gave into temptation and did just that), and I hold to that quite stringently about the main body of my work.

 

Buuuuuut since this won't be out until who knows when and it's a very early draft... no harm done! This is a quick excerpt from one of the early chapters of the story I tentatively title 'No More Blooming Sky'. It's a letter, obviously, and based very much inspired by a historical letter written by one Fr. Buisse after the war. Locations, names of characters, all that jazz are just placeholders and subject to tons of revision:

 

 

"

'Letter Home'

Douai, France

September 28, 1932

Mrs. Marianne Joyce.

Madame,

It is hard for me to properly convey my feelings upon receipt of your inquiry posted the 3rd of August. In truth I have been searching for you for many years now, and my lack of success has been a daily source of shame and regret. I do believe I can provide you with the insight you desire, but it is a solemn duty if ever there was one, and I can't help but feel a sadness that your long search has brought us both to this crossroad.

I reside in a small village east of Douai, which I doubt has ever been of much strategic value or worthy of note to any army of the past or present. We fell under German occupation early in the war but were thankfully spared much of the bloodshed, until the last hundred days. When the last Allied offensive began in 1918 we witnessed many aerial patrols operating in the sky above us, doubtless a reaction to the numerous German aviation camps in our vicinity. Often battles would rage over our heads, and it was not uncommon then for craft of both sides to crash in the fields around us, and some even within the village proper. These were hard, difficult times but we were consoled by the knowledge that the conflagration which had so embroiled the world was drawing to an end at last.

On the morning of October the 17th a German supply train was unloading at the railyard that can be found perhaps little over mile away from my parish. A flight of five USAAS "SPAD" fighter planes appeared almost just over our heads, having apparently approached at low altitude so as to avoid detection. They targeted the munitions train, and a great flurry of anti-aircraft fire began. The roar was tremendous. A squadron of Fokker biplanes set upon them, and one SPAD in particular was quickly damaged. It maintained its course, disregarding its imminent peril, and dropped four 25lb bombs upon the train. He succeeded in destroying it, his bombs having ignited other bombs and ammunition crates on the ground which themselves set on fire and began exploding, thoroughly disabling the train and preventing its ability to provide any aid for the German war effort.

When next I saw the SPAD it was itself engulfed in flames. Whether the fire from the German fighter plane had caused this or if it was the flames of the exploding munitions train I do not know. Regardless the brave American had utterly lost control of his craft, and it crashed on the field just outside my own parish, engulfed in a hellish fire. So impressed were they with the pilot's bravery and skill that several German soldiers attempted to brave the fire to retrieve his body, and were themselves burned in the attempt. We were obliged to let the fires run their course, and truthfully there wasn't much to recover when they were quenched.

From the pilot's remains I recovered several items, most damaged beyond any recognition save the Lord's. These were interred with his remains. The exception was a small, golden locket he wore around his neck which, though damaged and burned near black, was spared complete destruction by the miraculous grace of almighty God. The interior contained a charred photograph, in which one could just barely discern the figures of a man and a woman.

I believe now, having studied your letter, that this pilot was your son.

Your letter contained mention of a locket your son wore, which he never removed as he considered it a good luck charm. You say that the locket contained a photograph of himself and his wife taken at your home in Boston immediately subsequent their marriage in the summer of 1918, just before he left for France. Most tellingly, you reveal an inscription on the back of the photograph proper which reads "All my love - Anna".

I have kept the locket locked away in a safe in my bedchamber for many years, and have never once attempted to disassemble the locket to remove the photograph, for fear that any such foolish tampering would destroy it. I felt compelled to do precisely this after I read the description you provided. That inscription which you so exactly is still present, and legible when one knows what to look for.

Your son rests within the shadow of my church, near my home. Every day I walk by his grave, which is well cared for, and think upon him with respect and admiration. I understand your sadness, for in a way perhaps understood only by our Lord, it is my sadness also. I have adopted him with all my heart. It is you who gave birth to him; it is I who buried him and committed him to the hands of God. May we meet him again in Heaven.

Votre tout devous

Fr. Aveligne

"

[Dej 17]

Excellent work Javito, very convincing and captures well the tone that one feels must have have been present in so many of such letters written by grieving parents and spouses after the War. It certainly echoes some of the letters written by Caroline Rhys Davids as she sought for news of Arthur Rhys Davids following his being posted missing.

 

May I offer some suggestions, though. I feel that an educated French (I presume) priest in 1932, with such a good command of English, would have written 'It is hard for me properly to convey' rather than spliting the infinitive. Also I suspect he would have used 'can not', 'was not' and 'it is'. Lastly, would he have known the aircraft were 'fighters' and would he have used that word rather than 'avions de chasse' or even simply 'machines'.

 

All in all though, very good indeed... more please.

[Javito1986 14]

Good ideas! Will make edits, definitely agree with everything you said.

[Javito1986 14]

P.S. where can I find those Rhys Davids letters? He's one of my favorite RFC airmen

[Dej 17]

Hi Javito,

 

Read 'Brief Glory' a biography of Arthur Rhys Davids by Alex Revell. Arthur's story is told primarily via letters between Arthur and his mother and sisters (with a very touching exception of a letter to his father). An enlightening and very poignant read if your view of APFRD is centered around the dogfight with Voss, as I admit mine had been.

 

Oh, one other note: 'solemn duty if ever there were one'. I didn't mention it before but having contemplated it later I think that a priest, having studied Latin by necessity would be well aware of the subjunctive mood in other languages. Plus, I believe, those who spoke English as a foreign language in that time, and spoke it well, are typified as having a more formal grammatic usage, e.g. Ralph Fiennes' character in 'The English Patient' - true or no, it set the character.

[Olham 164]

Searching for the title "Brief Glory", I found it doesn't seem to have been translated to German.

But it is still available, and I ordered one from AMAZON UK. Thank you for the tip, Dej.

[Wayfarer 5]

About the air war and WW1 in general ...

 

 

 

Ask Icarus how it felt, that shrieking fall

 

When man’s craft failed

 

With unfastened wings’ futile fluttering

 

While the remorseless blaze withered all

 

 

Let Prometheus explain, the endless aching

 

When men take fire

 

And bound by uncompromising honour find

 

Themselves wracked on a rock of their own making

 

 

From our fathers we heard those tales in turn

 

But knowing best, like them, we didn’t learn

Edited September 9, 2011 by Wayfarer

[Slartibartfast 153]

Outstanding work there Wayfarer... yours or otherwise ?

[Wayfarer 5]

Thanks Slartibartfast. Mine, actually.

[Dej 17]

Huzzah! That, Sir, is uncommon good.

[Olham 164]

Hey, Wayfarer, that is another beautiful piece of poetry here! Even classic somehow!

[RAF_Louvert 101]

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Javito, your short story is very good Sir. Please keep writing and sharing.

 

And Wayfarer, that poem of yours is on a whole nother level Sir. Really quite outstanding.

 

.

[Olham 164]

Javito? Short story?? How does this sometimes happen, that I overlook posts?

 

That is a very melancholic, heart-touching story, Sir!

Edited September 10, 2011 by Olham

[Wayfarer 5]

Thanks guys.

Now I can allow myself the pleasure of a good browse of everyone else's stories and poems. I hadn't had a proper look before because I had been worried about unconcsiously ripping off somone else's work.

[Olham 164]

The German poems I find about the Great War, always tend to be very dark.

But then it seems only logical to me.

 

Here is one by Georg Trakl; with my attempt of translation.

 

GRODEK (Georg Trakl)

 

Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder

Von tötlichen Waffen, die goldnen Ebenen

Und blauen Seen, darüber die Sonne

Düster hinrollt; umfängt die Nacht

Sterbende Krieger, die wilde Klage

Ihrer zerbrochenen Münder.

 

Doch stille sammelt im Weidengrund

Rotes Gewölk, darin ein zürnender Gott wohnt,

Das vergossne Blut sich, mondne Kühle;

Alle Straßen münden in schwarze Verwesung.

Unter goldnem Gezweig der Nacht und Sternen

Es schwankt der Schwester Schatten durch den schweigenden Hain,

Zu grüßen die Geister der Helden, die blutenden Häupter;

Und leise tönen im Rohr die dunkeln Flöten des Herbstes.

O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre,

Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz,

Die ungebornen Enkel.

 

 

GRODEK

 

At the evening the autumn woods resound

from the deadly weapons, the golden lowlands

and blue lakes, the sun above rolling over

darkly; the night receiving

dying warriors, the wild lament

of their broken mouths.

 

But silently red clouds gather in the willow ground,

an angry god dwelling within,

the shedded blood; moonlike chill.

All roads ending in black decay

under golden branches of night and stars.

 

The nurse's shadow is swaying through the silent grove

to hail the ghosts of the heroes, the bleeding heads;

and in the reed quietly sounding the gloomy pipes of autumn.

Oh prouder mourning! You iron altars,

the burning flame of the spirit is fueled today by a tremendous pain,

the unborn grandchildren.

[Wayfarer 5]

Olham I like it, although I admit that people say I like sad things too much!

It 's also an impressive translation. I can only just about ask the way to a railway station in German!