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War has always elicited a great outpouring from the arts. Songs, plays, movies, and books are just some of the ways the general populace has been given a glimpse of what normally happens away from the public’s eyes. One of the first great stories of western literature, the Odyssey, is the retelling of an epic retelling of a 10 year conflict. How warfare is presented depends greatly on the experiences and ideology of the poet. Some are merely descriptive, others sing of the glories of conflict and others, the horror. Here is one by English author John Donne (pronounced ‘done’) 1572-1631.
A BURNT SHIP
Out of a fired ship, which by no way
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,
Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came
Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay ;
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,
They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drowned.
I think the First World War was the catalyst for some of the most emotional and frank descriptions of warfare. Many of these that are so well remembered today were written by men who fought in the front trenches, their horrifying experiences reflected in the pain their words impart. Here are a few:
Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). Counter-Attack and Other Poems. 1918. 
The Rear-Guard
(HINDENBURG LINE, APRIL 1917)
GROPING along the tunnel, step by step,
He winked his prying torch with patching glare
From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.
Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know;
A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; 5
And he, exploring fifty feet below
The rosy gloom of battle overhead.
Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie
Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,
And stooped to give the sleeper’s arm a tug. 10
‘I’m looking for headquarters.’ No reply.
‘God blast your neck!’ (For days he’d had no sleep,)
‘Get up and guide me through this stinking place.’
Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,
And flashed his beam across the livid face 15
Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore
Agony dying hard ten days before;
And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.
Alone he staggered on until he found
Dawn’s ghost that filtered down a shafted stair 20
To the dazed, muttering creatures underground
Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.
At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,
He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,
Unloading hell behind him step by step. 25
And here another:
The General
‘GOOD-MORNING; good-morning!’ the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack 5
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
. . . .
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
And finally, with commentary:
Breaking the conspiracy of silence By Rob Ruggenberg
The Hero, by Siegfried Lorraine Sassoon (1886-1967), is one of the disputed war poems this British officer and poet wrote in the period 1915-1918.
When The Hero appeared in print, in 1917, many people were shocked. Fellow-officers condemned him. They found the poem caddish, as it could destroy every mother's faith in the report of her son's death.
Sassoon made clear that the poem did not refer to anyone he had known. "But it is pathetically true. And of course the average Englishman will hate it", he remarked - shaping a distance between the 'averages' and 'those who know better'.
Certainly Sassoon was breaking the conspiracy of silence, but many soldiers felt that those at home should be made to realize the full horror, and the ugliness, of the war as much as possible.
Even today Sassoon is still object of discussion. Some find it offensive that he came back from the front and said 'I can't lead men to their death any more'. It implied a monopoly of virtue, as if other officers liked doing it because they acquiesced in their duty.
On the other hand every society needs men who dare to stand up against common convictions. Sassoon did so - with strong opinions and with splendid poems, that will live on for ever.
The Hero
'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quivered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
I’ll add more later, including some from other wars. These are just a few I particularly enjoy – hope you have, too.
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