WWI Poetry Project
Choose one WWI poem from the following list.
Step #1 Read the poem and write an essay describing what you feel the poem is saying. How does it represent war? Does it support the war or not?
What does the author want you to feel? Use your understanding of WWI to come up with your poem’s meaning. Your essay should be at least one typed page.
Step #2 They say a picture is worth 1000 words. I want you to create a drawing, poster, painting, or any other visual aide to capture your poem’s meaning. Be very creative and accurate. All images must be of the WWI time period. All wording must be large enough to be read from five feet away.
Step #3 Present your visual aide/ drawing to the class. During this presentation you, will tell us how the poem made you feel, what you felt the author was saying, what does it have to do with WWI, and any other impressions it gave you. This presentation will not be timed but you must interpret the poem for us and explain your visual aide.
All Projects will be due on November 13, 2014
Please choose from the appropriate categories:
-No Man’s Land - Good Courage -My Story
-The Quiet -Dulce Et Decorum Est -Why
Wear A Poppy
-Trench Poets -Argonne Forest At Midnight -The Green
Fields of France
- Not to Keep
Enjoy and have fun!!!!!!!!!

WWI POEMS
No Man's Land
No Man's Land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light.
Never a house and never a hedge
In No Man's Land from edge to edge,
And never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of the morning air; -
Only some lumps of rotting clay,
That were friends or foemen yesterday.
What are the bounds of No Man's Land?
You can see them clearly on either hand,
A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun,
Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run
From the eastern hills to the western sea,
Through field or forest o'er river and lea;
No man may pass them, but aim you well
And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.
But No Man's Land is a goblin sight
When patrols crawl over at dead o' night;
Boche or British, Belgian or French,
You dice with death when you cross the trench.
When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark,
Flits down the parapet spark by spark,
And you drop for cover to keep your head
With your face on the breast of the four months' dead.
The man who ranges in No Man's Land
Is dogged by the shadows on either hand
When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'er head,
Scares the gray rats that feed on the dead,
And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch
May answer the click of your safety-catch,
For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,
Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land.
By: James H. Knight-Adkin

Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
By: Wilfred Owen

Argonne Forest At Midnight
A sapper's song from the World War 1915
Argonne Forest, at midnight,
A sapper atands on guard.
A star shines high up in the sky, bringing greetings from a distant homeland.
And with a spade in his hand,
He waits forward in the sap-trench.
He thinks with longing on his love,
Wondering if he will ever see her again.
The artillery roars like thunder,
While we wait in front of the infantry,
With shells crashing all around.
The Frenchies want to take our position.
Should the enemy threaten us even more,
We Germans fear him no more.
And should he be so strong,
He will not take our position.
The storm breaks! The mortar crashes!
The sapper begins his advance.
Forward to the enemy trenches,
There he pulls the pin on a grenade.
The infantry stand in wait,
Until the hand grenade explodes.
Then forward with the assault against the enemy,
And with a shout, break into their position.
Argonne Forest, Argonne Forest,
Soon thou willt be a quiet cemetary.
In thy cool earth rests much gallant soldiers' blood.
By: German War Poet

GOOD COURAGE
Good courage in the July drive
That's why I did not die,
Whilst the fighting in the trenches
The first day of July.
In No Man's land I took my stand
Where some bullets pierced my thigh,
And left me there a cripple
On the battlefield to die.
Where hundreds of our soldier boys
Lay dead upon the ground,
And no one there to say a prayer
As I gazed and looked around.
After seventy-three long hours
In a shell-hole where I lay,
The blood ran down like water
"Twas the horror of the day.
When down beneath the shell-hole
I could not rise my head,
And on top of my legs and body
Some soldiers lay there dead.
Whilst shells were flying all around
My puttees caught on fire,
But for the clay and mud that day
My frame began to tire.
For sixty-two long hours
The hun did blast away,
And ten thousand of our soldier lads
On the battle field did lay.
Oh! The bitter morning; I heard that day
From the whistling of the mortar,
And all the rats that roamed that day
Took part amongst the slaughter.
We were the 29th Division or the S.S. Brigade
As we advanced over No Man's land,
"The penalty was great." they said
But looking back over the past that's gone
No more will I fight to die,
Way out there on Flander's Fields
As sure as I am Kilfoy.
I am one of the lucky five hundred
Though my limbs are shattered and torn,
I will not forget that July Drive
Or those who are left to mourn.

Of glory to their memory
Where on the battle field they lie,
Down in those terrible trenches
Where they were left to die.
It was then I spied a soldier lad
Who wore a Red Cross band,
As he travelled alone that day
Out there on No Man's Land.
Then he pulled the dead bodies of me
And lay them by my side,
Then wrapped me up in bandages
Where most men would have died.
Then he took me on his shoulders
Oh! What courage this man must find,
And he brought me to a dressing station
One mile down the line.
My boot and foot, part of my leg
Were left out there in the mud,
Which made his burden lighter
But his clothes were soaked with blood.
I do not know that good man's name
As my strength was all but gone,
God will defend such courage
Is a prayer that guides us on.
It was my last time on that battle field
And no more will I want to see,
The horrors of a brutal war
No place on earth should be.
And as I look back on my memories
When we were in the prime of life,
Not thinking that this day would come
For me to have a wife.
Yes, today after forty long years
I have a good and faithful wife,
And am blessed with a family
To guide my crippled life.
My prayers have all been answered
And to the past, I'll say good-bye.
Where we fought and died like soldiers
The first day of July.
By: W.S. Reardon For Private Soldier Leo Kilfoy, Soldier of War
World One.

TRENCH POETS
I knew a man, he was my chum, but he grew blacker every day, and would not brush the flies away, nor blanch however fierce the hum of passing shells; I used to read, to rouse him, random things from Donne--
Like "Get with child a mandrake-root."
But you can tell he was far gone,
For he lay gaping, mackerel-eyed, and stiff, and senseless as a post
Even when that old poet cried
"I long to talk with some old lover's ghost.
I tried the Elegies one day, but he, because he heard me say:
"What needst thou have more covering than a man?"
Grinned nastily, and so I knew
The worms had got his brains at last.
There was one thing that I might do to starve the worms; I racked my head for healthy things and quoted Maud.
His grin got worse and I could see
He sneered at passion's purity.
He stank so badly, though we were great chums
I had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.
By: Edgell Rickword

NOT TO KEEP
They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying . . . and she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight --
Living. -- They gave him back to her alive --
How else? They are not known to send the dead --
And not disfigured visibly. His face? --
His hands? She had to look -- to ask,
"What was it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all -- they had -- they the lucky!
Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissable ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
"Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest -- and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.
By: Robert Frost

"Why wear a Poppy?"
"Please wear a Poppy", the lady said,
And held one forth, but I shook my head,
Then I slopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street.
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady" said he, "may I have one?"
When she'd pinned it on, he turned to say:
"Why do we wear a Poppy to-day?"
The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered: "This is Remembrance Day",
"And the Poppy there is a symbol for
The gallant men who died in the war".
"And because they did, you and I are free
That's why we wear a Poppy you see".
I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
"He loved to play and jump and shout.
Free as a bird, he would race about.
As the years went by, he learned and grew,
And became a man-as you will, too".
"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile.
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day.
When he smiled at me and said good-bye.
I'll be back soon, Mum, so please don't cry"
But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
"His letters told of the awful fight
(I can see it still in my dreams at night)
With the tanks and guns and the cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and the fire".
"Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a Poppy, son".
The small boy turned as if to go.
Then said: "Thanks, lady I'm glad to know.
"That sure did sound like an awful fight.
But your son - did he come back alright?"
A tear rolled down each faded cheek;

She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away In a sort of shame.
And if you were me, you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, is oft delayed,
Though our freedom was bought - and thousands paid;
And so, when we see a Poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a Poppy! Remember - and give!
By Don Crawford

THE GREEN FIELDS OF FRANCE
Well how do you do, Private William MacBride do you mind if I sit here by your graveside?
And I'll rest for a while in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone that you were only 19 when you joined the dead heroes in 1915.
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean or Willie MacBride was it slow and obscene?
Well the sun's shining now on these green fields of France, a warm wind blows gently and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished under the plow no gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that is still No Man's land the countless white crosses in mute witness stand.
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man to a whole generation that was butchered and damned.
And I can't help but wonder now Willie MacBride do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you the cause?
Did you really believe them that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame - the killing and dying - it was all done in vain.
Oh Willie MacBride, it's all happened again and again, and again, and again, and again.
And did you leave wife or a sweetheart behind, in some faithful heart are you forever enshrined?
And though you died back in 1915 to some faithful heart are you forever 19?
- by Eric Bogle

My Story
Jack joined the army at the age of sixteen they sent him to war, to a place he'd never seen.
To fight the Germans, Turks and with the French, now sitting in mud, in a crowded trench.
Thousands waiting to go out and fight, hoping it will be over, before daylight.
Over the top they went, when the orders came, scared young men, who don't know who to blame.
In seconds they fell, and lay there dying, those left alive you could hear them crying.
Hundreds lay dead, in those first few minutes, had no escape from those German bullets.
Those who refused, faced the firing squad, nothing left now, only to face their God.
When the firing stopped, the General said, now go out and get the lame and the dead.
Those badly injured, were all left to sigh, hoping to get home, before they die.
The rest were left there, to try and survive, having to kill the enemy, to stay alive.
For weeks we fought, in that forsaken place, eating and drinking, with blood on our face.
No where to wash, amid that awful smell, life in the trenches, was just bloody hell.
Now the war's over, I've been back and seen, the graves of soldiers, aged only eighteen.
I was lucky, I've been able to grow old, to my son this story I told.
Poem by Alan Brazier (Grandson)