Poetry thread

[Andy in West Oz]

In my recent readings, I've been coming across a few poems written/inspired by air/ground crew so thought I'd start a thread dedicated to that type of poetry. I know there's a poetry section in the general discussion, just thought I'd start a "specialised" one...plus I enjoy posting!

Of course, we have John Gillespie Magee's justiafiably oft-quoted High Flight. Will post others later when I have access to what I've read (at work at mo!) but one of my fave's is Peter Clare's signature.

On weald of Kent I watched once more
Again I heard that grumbling roar
Of fighter planes; yet none were near
And all around the sky was clear
Borne on the wind a whisper came
'Though men grow old, they stay the same'
And then I knew, unseen to eye
The ageless Few were sweeping by

[spidge]

What about another by Magee?

Per Ardua

by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

They that have climbed the white mists of the morning,
They that have soared, before the world's awake,
To herald up their foemen to them, scorning
The thin dawn's rest their weary folk might take.

Some that have left other mouths to tell the story
Of high blue battle — quite young limbs that bled;
How they had thundered up the clouds to glory,
Or fallen to an English field stained red.

Because my faltering feet would fail I find them
Laughing beside me, steadying the hand
That seeks their deadly courage — yet behind them
The cold light dies on that once brilliant land...

Do these, who help the quickened pulse run slowly,
Whose stern remembered image cools the brow —
Till the far dawn of Victory know only
Night's darkness, and Valhalla's silence now?

[Andy in West Oz]

Wow. Eyes welled up there.

[sapper]

Quietly! Quietly! Whisper my Name.

So many long years ago I died, under Norman apple trees.
But now my Spirit wanders, as a warm and gentle breeze.
Hush! Quietly, Whisper my name, in that long forgotten place.
Then feel the warmth of my Spirit, caress lightly on your face.

For now, I am the jewelled Summer Lark, that soars on high.
Bright in heavens concert hall, my song will fill the sky.
I am the tumbling cloud’s that rise, to touch the face of Joy.
No longer held by earthly bonds, a once young and vital boy.

In an instant life was swept away, in a brutal savage war.
Look not for me in Normandy, for I am there no more.
I am the peace in woodland glades, in veiled cascades of green.
Feel me close, in your times of joy, sensed, but never seen.

Whisper my name, and hear my voice, in cascading woodland spring,
Or England's flowered primrose banks, wherein the bluebells ring.
Don’t mourn for me, quietly call my name, I'll visit in your dreams.
And, fill your mind with the beauty, of heavens joyous scenes.

Hush! Hush! Just whisper, quietly, call my name.
Whisper quietly.

By Brian Guy.
(Sapper)
For all my Friends of long ago.

[spidge]

Well done Sapper!

[Andy in West Oz]

Magic, Sapper, magic.

From the acknowledgements of Pursuit Through Darkened Skies by Michael Allen is this snippet:

...of flak, intruders, beams,
Of dummy runs and how to weave,
Sorties and strikes, and tales like dreams
Which none but airmen would believe.

[Andy in West Oz]

From acknowledgments of They Gave Me a Seafire by Cdr R. "Mike" Crosley, DSC, RN (arrived today and I'm judging it by its cover...stunning!):

They say in the RAF that a landing's OK
If the pilot gets out and can still walk away.
But in the Fleet Air Arm the prospect is grim,
The landing's piss poor if the pilot can't swim.

Cracking show, I'm alive!
But I've still got to render my A25.

They gave me a Seafire to beat up the Fleet,
I polished off Nelson and Rodney a treat,
But forgot the high masts that stick out from Formid
And a seat in the Goofers was worth fifty quid.

Cracking show, I'm alive!
But I've still got to render my A25.

(Apparently, a Form A25 was rendered in quadruplicate to higher authoritie, by the Sqn concerned, to establish the cause of the accident.)

[Andy in West Oz]

From Appendix 7B in Silently into the Midst of Things by Atholl Sutherland-Brown:

There's a little sand-swept desert
To the south of Pha-Pha-Mau,
Where the pie-dogs, snakes and vultures
Roam the plains:
How they lived was hard to tell,
For this last outpost of Hell
Offered nought but grim stark death
In its domains.

It was known as Pha-Pha-Mau,
And, 'tis said that once a war
Brought some airmen and their planes
Therein to fly.
But the kites ne'er left the ground,
And their crews just moped around,
Decaying as the years went rolling by.

They were wrecks, just skin and bone,
Forgotten by folks at home,
In dreams they had their wisps of heaven.
One might find the place perhaps
Along desert camel tracks,
To see the remnants of that crowd '177'.

Natives say at dead of night,
In the distance ghostly nights
Illuminate the runways and the trees,
While a high-pitched ghostly roar,
Fills the skies o'er Pha-Pha-Mau,
As some ghostly pilot revs his Hercules.

Despite having read the book recently, I'm at a loss to put this in context. I must be missing something.

[Andy in West Oz]

From page 163 of Spitfires, Thunderbolts and Warm Beer by Philip D. Caine. Poem is written by an early 1943 4th FG pilot and transcribed into a letter to the parents of our hero, former 66 Sqn and Eagle Sqn, LeRoy Gover.

Fighter Pilot

I know that it will come, but when or where?
In rattling burst or roaring sheet of flame,
In the green blanket sea choking for air,
Amid the bubbles transient as my name.

Sometimes a second's throw decides the game,
Winner takes all, and there's no replay,
Indifferent earth and sky breathe on the same,
I settle up my score and go my way.

The years I might have had I throw away,
They only lead to winter's lingering pain;
No tears call them from those who perchance stay,
For spring however spent comes not again.

When April brings once more the gentle rain,
Mention my name in passing, if you must,
As one who accepted terms, slay or be slain,
And knew the bargain was both good and just.

[Kyt]

Andy, Phaphamau was where 177 Squadron were based for training from April to August 1943. Have a look at page 25-26. Not a pleasent time.