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Ed. Hoornik
(1910-1970)
Aan de doden
Wij kunnen u niet meer bereiken,
wij komen een zintuig tekort,
wij leggen ons neer bij de feiten
dat gij minder en minder wordt.
De enkele keren dat ge
in dromen ons nog verschijnt,
wordt gij al ijler en ijler
tot ge voor altijd verdwijnt.
Straten houden uw namen
voor heden en morgen in stand,
maar onze kinderen brengen
ze niet meer met u in verband.
Het land ligt nog net als het toen lag
van polder tot polder te kijk;
de mensen die er in wonen
blijven zichzelve gelijk.
Maar één maal per jaar is de stilte
tot de hemel toe van u vervuld
en belijden zij zonder woorden
hun dankbaarheid en hun schuld.
Het werk van Ed Hoornik is sterk beïnvloed door zijn ervaringen als overlevende van het concentratiekamp Dachau.
Ed Hoornik poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, REPRESSION OF WRITERS & ARTISTS
Jan Campert
(1902- 1943)
Het lied der achttien doden
Een cel is maar twee meter lang
en nauw twee meter breed,
wel kleiner nog is het stuk grond,
dat ik nu nog niet weet,
maar waar ik naamloos rusten zal,
mijn makkers bovendien,
wij waren achttien in getal,
geen zal de avond zien.
O lieflijkheid van licht en land,
van Hollands vrije kust,
eens door de vijand overmand
had ik geen uur meer rust.
Wat kan een man oprecht en trouw,
nog doen in zulk een tijd ?
Hij kust zijn kind, hij kust zijn vrouw
en strijd den ijlden strijd.
Ik wist de taak die ik begon,
een taak van moeite zwaar,
maar ‘t hart dat het niet laten kon
schuwt nimmer het gevaar;
het weet hoe eenmaal in dit land
de vrijheid werd geëerd,
voordat de vloekbre schennershand
het anders heeft begeerd.
Voordat die eeden breekt en bralt
het miss’lijk stuk bestond
en Holland’s landen binnenvalt
en brandschat zijnen grond;
voordat die aanspraak maakt op eer
en zulk Germaans gerief
ons volk dwong onder zijn beheer
en plunderde als een dief.
De Rattenvanger van Berlijn
pijpt nu zijn melodie, -
zoo waar als ik straks dood zal zijn,
de liefste niet meer zie
en niet meer breken zal het brood
en slapen mag met haar -
verwerp al wat hij biedt of bood
die sluwe vogelaar.
Gedenk die deze woorden leest
mijn makkers in den nood
en die hen nastaan ‘t allermeest
in hunnen rampspoed groot,
gelijk ook wij hebben gedacht
aan eigen land en volk -
er daagt een dag na elke nacht,
voorbij trekt iedre wolk.
Ik zie hoe ‘t eerste morgenlicht
door ‘t hooge venster draalt.
Mijn God, maak mij het sterven licht -
en zoo ik heb gefaald
gelijk een elk wel falen kan,
schenk mijn dan Uw genâ,
opdat ik heenga als een man
als ik voor de loopen sta.
Jan Campert (1902-1943): Nederlands letterkundige, journalist en dichter, werd gearresteerd wegens hulp aan joden en ter dood gebracht te Neuengamme. Toen Campert op 5 maart 1941 de Duitse bekendmaking las over de voltrokken doodvonnissen van vijftien verzetslieden van de illegale groep De Geuzen en drie stakers van de Februaristaking, schreef hij het gedicht De achttien dooden.
Bernardus IJzerdraad (49 jaar), gobelinrestaurateur
Jan Kijne (46 jaar), vertegenwoordiger
Ary Kop (40 jaar), verzekeringsagent
Jacob van der Ende (22 jaar), schilder
Leendert Keesmaat (29 jaar), onderwijzer
Hendrik Wielenga (37 jaar), electrotechnicus
Johannes Smit (30 jaar), monteur
Frans Rietveld (36 jaar), slijper
Leendert Langstraat (31 jaar), machinebankwerker
Jan Wernard van den Bergh (47 jaar), slijper
Albertus Johannes de Haas (37 jaar), metaalgieter
Reijer Bastiaan van der Borden (32 jaar), hulppolitieagent
Nicolaas Arie van der Burg (36 jaar), vertegenwoordiger
George de Boon (21 jaar), metaalbewerker
Dirk Kouvenhoven (24 jaar), stoker
E. Hellendoorn
Hermanus Mattheus Hendricus Coenradi, elektricien
J. Eyl
Jan Campert poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive C-D, REPRESSION OF WRITERS & ARTISTS
Friedrich Sassoon
(1886-1967)
Suicide in the trenches
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
* * * * *
You snug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Friedrich Sassoon poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Sassoon, Siegfried
John McCrae
(1872 – 1918)
The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.
John McCrae poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D, McCrae, John
John McCrae
(1872 – 1918)
Then And Now
Beneath her window in the fragrant night
I half forget how truant years have flown
Since I looked up to see her chamber-light,
Or catch, perchance, her slender shadow thrown
Upon the casement; but the nodding leaves
Sweep lazily across the unlit pane,
And to and fro beneath the shadowy eaves,
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
When all is still, as if the very trees
Were listening for the coming of her feet
That come no more; yet, lest I weep, the breeze
Sings some forgotten song of those old years
Until my heart grows far too glad for tears.
John McCrae poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D, McCrae, John
Friedrich Sassoon
(1886-1967)
How to die
Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns:
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.
You’d think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.
Friedrich Sassoon poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Sassoon, Siegfried
Friedrich Sassoon
(1886-1967)
The fathers
Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.
One of them said: “My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.
But Arthur’s getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine-inch gun.”
“Yes,” wheezed the other, “that’s the luck!
My boy’s quite broken-hearted, stuck
In England training all this year.
Still, if there’s truth in what we hear,
The Huns intend to ask for more
Before they bolt across the Rhine.”
I watched them toddle through the door–
These impotent old friends of mine.
Friedrich Sassoon poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Sassoon, Siegfried
John McCrae
(1872 – 1918)
The Oldest Drama
“It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.
And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad,
Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon,
and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . .
And shut the door upon him and went out.”
Immortal story that no mother’s heart
Ev’n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain
That rent her soul! Immortal not by art
Which makes a long past sorrow sting again
Like grief of yesterday: but since it said
In simplest word the truth which all may see,
Where any mother sobs above her dead
And plays anew the silent tragedy.
John McCrae poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D, McCrae, John
John McCrae
(1872 – 1918)
Anarchy
I saw a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.
And speaking, fell before that brutish race
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.
“Speak not of God! In centuries that word
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we.”
And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
And o’er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.
John McCrae poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive C-D, McCrae, John
Friedrich Sassoon
(1886-1967)
The Dream
I
Moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent
Of summer gardens; these can bring you all
Those dreams that in the starlit silence fall:
Sweet songs are full of odours.
While I went
Last night in drizzling dusk along a lane,
I passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden
Came the rank smell that brought me once again
A dream of war that in the past was hidden.
II
Up a disconsolate straggling village street
I saw the tired troops trudge: I heard their feet.
The cheery Q.M.S. was there to meet
And guide our Company in …
I watched them stumble
Into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble;
Saw them file inward, slipping from their backs
Rifles, equipment, packs.
On filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face
Bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace,
While the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks.
III
I’m looking at their blistered feet; young Jones
Stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded;
Out of his eyes the morning light has faded.
Old soldiers with three winters in their bones
Puff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes:
They can still grin at me, for each of ‘em knows
That I’m as tired as they are …
Can they guess
The secret burden that is always mine?–
Pride in their courage; pity for their distress;
And burning bitterness
That I must take them to the accursèd Line.
IV
I cannot hear their voices, but I see
Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea,
And soon they’ll sleep like logs. Ten miles away
The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife.
And I must lead them nearer, day by day,
To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.
Friedrich Sassoon poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Sassoon, Siegfried
Friedrich Sassoon
(1886-1967)
Attack
At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glowering sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesu, make it stop!
Friedrich Sassoon poetry
kempis.nl poetry magazine – Remembrance Day 11-11-11
More in: Archive S-T, Sassoon, Siegfried
To Good Guys Dead
They sucked us in;
King and country,
Christ Almighty
And the rest.
Patriotism,
Democracy,
Honor -
Words and phrases,
They either bitched or killed us.
Ernest Hemingway, 1918
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive G-H, Ernest Hemingway
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