A few days ago I found a photograph in the rain at the side of the road. A recycle bin had been knocked over and there were a few bits and pieces strewn around. I realised it had been discarded, clearly there was no one left to be sentimental about this photo and it had been thrown in the bin for recycling. It looks like these beautiful young men were maybe doing training, possibly engineers judging by the wellingtons some of them are wearing, there is an army tent errected behind them. Salisbury Plain was a common place for training (it still is). It looks like the 1940’s and they have the look of young men eager to get to the enemy and do the duty they have been told to believe in. I cleaned the rain and mud off the picture and I spent some time looking at their faces and imagining their banter and seeing if I could time travel back and be with them for a moment.
War Photograph
We answered the call to protect our nation Me, Billy and Jock On a bar stool one night with great oration The enemy we did mock We were told we must defend freedom our regiment gathered, training defend the borders of our great kingdom on Salisbury Plain it was raining We met others like us and we gave our lives Billy, Jock and me we had mothers and sisters and girlfriends and wives for our king we fought to be free We were fathers and sons, mates and brothers me and Billy and Jock In the battlefield mud we cried for our mothers and died of blood loss and shock On a day in the sun we gathered together We were boys without any fear We were pals, we were mates, we were birds of a feather for our enemies death we would cheer I lived to the end and home I did go Just me, not Billy or Jock I left them on the field in the mud and the rain dying of blood loss and shock Now I am gone too and our picture is here The three of us together again When the sun came out and we gave a cheer In training on Salisbury Plain
Thanks for being here. If you have any thoughts on the photograph let me know.
hola, april. what came to mind was this poem. (i’ve added dots to indicate stanza breaks.)
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boys, dressed as men.
in our chest-high bravado of masked strangers,
standing in line of a grand,
the grandest,
punch and judy show.
the tent behind and behind that
we stand up as rough boys who are
insensate to what’s in our butts
what’s in and also not in our spines.
another’s hands or others’ hands
we didn’t know were there help guides us.
for us to stick around we dodge the barbed sticks
and scamper like dogs to lick that carrot.
and we attempt to smile as if this is it,
as if we are in war
the best in show.
did we know that the best show is in the showing?
.
the pictures are great!
so many and yet, in the end, so very few.
you see us, so we can all pretend not to hope
that you do see us as heroes in this
villainous trope —
a gag that we pretend doesn’t really exist.
.
i once had a name, i’m sure that i did because…
well … because how else would you know that i was?
Photos fade. Memory a memorial, a morning glory’s convoluted twining around a twisted twig of fate squeezed to the bitter end to support the blue or fragrant white flower of peace soon forgotten by another war and soldiers lying on ground for the glorious roots to take hold.