Rum Ration
the Navy Network

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

Firstly, this one. It has one of the most famous endings of all the War poems.
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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound'ring 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.

Wilfred Owen 8 October 1917 - March, 1918

And this one, which has some of the most famous imagery of the Great War. It also contains one of the most oft quoted first lines of any War poem.

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfre Owen, September - October, 1917

I look in your eyes, the tears form,
How can words convey the feelings that lie deep in my heart.
Memories of when we first loved and laughed,
How your eyes smiled when I watched you from the dock.
How I held on to you and them.
He is mine now for 2 days.
How we spent the time making love.
How we walked the Thames.
How you made me feel like a Princess.
Then again at the dock.
Watching you become theirs.
Tears in my eyes as I watched you walk on the ship.
Damn I hated to see you go.
But I always waited for you.
Then one day you did not come home.
You had told me that you shall always be their property.
And that I would have to share you with her.
But now as I stand at the site and cry.
Realise in her arms you now rest.
For you gave her your all. I love you please take care of her....
And may HMS SHEFFIELD protect you.

To a member of HMS SHEFFIELD's crew from Elaine, 1982...........
If this doesn't bring a tear to your eye...............

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death


I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above:
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love:
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


William Butler Yeats (June 13, 1865 – January 28, 1939) was an Irish poet, dramatist, mystic and civil servant. Yeats was one of the driving forces behind the Irish Literary Revival and was co-founder of the Abbey Theatre. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.


Apologies as I have posted this before. It wasn't written - as far as I know - with war in mind - but seems particularly appropriate.

A Sailor's Dream
by William Bonilla
Friday, September 07, 2007




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With close eyes
I clear my mind
Alone
I sit by the seashore
The fragrant salt in the wind
I inhale
As it gently blows ashore.

Seagull silently soar above
Riding thermals
In the heat of a clear day
They gracefully dive nearby
Into the beautiful harbor
I have in view.

Ships slowing sail by
I want to cry
Heading a sea
Gliding on mirrored
Glass waters
Horizon bound
Where a twilight mist awaits

Mysterious is her
Who swallows my dreams
Of old Sailor’s tale
Within huge storms brewing
Yonder
Ships are battling to sail.

My eyes open
My heart is broken
They disappear before me
Within the sea
I see them no more.

Passions fade within
My heart
From her I am kept apart
No longer will she spray
Her mist upon my face.

In silence they stand
Honoring me
Whose bones lays upon
A slab of timber
Crudely wrapped
In sack cloth
Covered by a Jolly Roger.

A slant towards the horizon
Sends me eternally
Into the bosom of her embrace
There I shall remain
Till judgment day
When she, the sea
Will give up all her dead.


By: William Bonilla
“D’Artagnan�
09/07/07

Noon and hazy heat,
A single silver sliver and a dull drone.
A gloved finger,poised,pressed
A seconds silence,then oblivion.

Hiroshima by Anon