Poll:is this poem alright??

When consciousness came back, he found he lay


Between the opposing fires, but could not tell


On which hand were his friends; and either way


For him to turn was chancy -- bullet and shell


Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare


Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day.


He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare,


Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay,


And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped


At random in a turnip-field between


The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped


Through that unending battle of unseen


Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent


He rolled upon his back within the pit,


And lay secure, thinkng of all it meant -


His lying in that little hole, sore hit,


But living, while across the starry sky


Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead -


Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie


Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed...


If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each night,


Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow stair,


And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light,


Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair


The way his mother'd taught him - too dog-tired


After the long day's serving in the shop,


Inquiring what each customer required,


Politiely talking weather, fit to drop...





And now for fourteen days and nights, at least,


He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain


In muddy trenches, napping like a beast


With one eye open, under sun and rain


And that unceasing hell-fire...








It was strange


How things turned out - the changes! You'd just got


To take your luck in life, you couln't change


Your luck.








And so here he was lying shot


Who just six months ago had thought to spend


His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps...


And now, God only knew how he would end!








He'd like to know haw many of the chaps


Had won back to the trench alive, when he


Had fallen wounded and been left for dead,


If any! ...








This was different, certainly,


From selling knots of tape and reels of thread


And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots


Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape,


Day in, day out, and answering "Have you got" 's


And "Do you keep" 's till there seemed no escape


From everlasting serving in a shop,


Inquiring what each customer required,


Politely talking weather, fit to drop,


With swollen ankles, tired...








But he was tired


Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached


For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench -


Just duller when he slept than when he waked -


Crouching for shelter from the steady drench


Of shell and shrapnel...








That old trench, it seemed


Almost like home to him. He'd slept and fed


And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed


Harmless, at least, as far as he...








But Dick -


Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday,


At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't stick


Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way,


And brought them butter in a lordly dish -


Butter enough for all, and held it high,


Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish -


When plump upon the plate from out the sky


A shell fell bursting... Where the butter went,


God only knew!...








And Dick... He dared not think


Of what had come to Dick... or what it meant -


The shrieking and the whistling and the stink


He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 'Twas luck


That he still lived . .. And queer how little then


He seemed to care that Dick... perhaps 'twas pluck


That hardened him -- a man among the men -


Perhaps... Yet, only think things out a bit,


And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk!


And he'd liked Dick... and yet when Dick was hit,


He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest skunk


He should have thought would feel it when his mate


Was blown to smithereens -- Dick, proud as punch,


Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate -


But he had gone on munching his dry hunch,


Unwinking, will he swallowed the last crumb.


Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let


His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his chum.


He dared not now, though he could not forget.








Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 'twas luck


From first to last; and you'd just got to trust


Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much pluck


As knowing that you'd got to, when needs must,


And better to die grinning...








Quiet now


Had fallen on the night. On either hand


The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow


The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned


The starry sky. He'd never seen before


So many stars. Although, of course, he'd known


That there were stars, somehow before the war


He'd never realised them -- so thick-sown,


Millions and millions. Serving in the shop,


Stars didn't count for much; and then at nights


Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop,


You didn't see much but the city lights.


He'd never in his life seen so much sky


As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer


The things war taught you. He'd a mind to try


To count the stars -- they shone so bright and clear.








One, two, three, four... Ah, God, but he was tired...


Five, six, seven, eight...








Yes, it was number eight.


And what was the next thing that she required?


(Too bad of customers to come so late,


At closing time!) Again within the shop


He handled knots of tape and reels of thread,


Politely talking weather, fit to drop...








When once again the whole sky overhead


Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell


And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily


He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell


Into deep dreamless slumber.








..........








He could see


Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew


He was awake, and it again was day -


An August morning, burning to clear blue.


The frightened rabbit scuttled...








Far away,


A sound of firing... Up there, in the sky


Big dragon-flies hung hovering... Snowballs burst


About them... Flies and snowballs. With a cry


He crouched to watch the airmen pass -- the first


That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck -


Shells bursting all about them -- and what nerve!


They took their chance, and trusted to their luck


At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve,


Dodging the shell-fire...








Hell! but one was hit,


And tumbling like a pigeon, plump...








Thank Heaven,


It righted, and then turned; and after it


The whole flock followed safe -- four, five, six, seven,


Yes, they were all there safely. They deserved,


Even if they were Germans... 'Twas no sin


To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved


Just in the nick of time!








He, too, must try


To win back to the lines, though, likely as not,


He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't lie


Forever in that hungry hole and rot,


He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance


Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd be


With any luck in Germany or France


Or Kingdom-come, next morning...








Drearily


The blazing day burnt over him, shot and shell


Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light


Faded at last, and as the darkness fell


He rose, and crawled away into the night.

Poll:is this poem alright??
Wow...I have to say I enjoyed that greatly. You're more than a fine poet. Although, I was expecting something a little different from someone with a avatar of Hendrix.





But please keep writing and posting your poems here. This one was amazing. I honestly am out of constructive critizisms to give.
Reply:I LIKE IT
Reply:I will tell you this: IT'S LONG. And it's pretty impressive.
Reply:its long.


but its quite good.


i like the last verse.


and the rhyme scheme you used.


a good war poem.
Reply:no...this is not a poem..
Reply:Terrific! Did you write that?





ETA: You should submit that to Atlantic Monthly or the New Yorker. It's worth publishing.
Reply:Wow that poem was really good, you have talent
Reply:That was very good
Reply:You would be wise not to post this on the internet until you have applied for and received a copyright through the Library of Congress. It could be stolen and used by someone else. Please consider what I've said.





I'm published and know what I'm talking about.