This about my day , a part of my day.
bargains in books , weakens of mine I have to say , I spotted a book ,
I read ''Dardanelles!'' on the cover ,
with my strong personal family interest in what happen there
The book I had to have!
when I reached my house,
I had hunted down me specks , could only find the pair with with the one
lence left in the frame
I tried me best to read the book , kinder hard as I had to have one eye shut
eavrey so offtan I'd lay the book down I'd search the room for the specks
with both lenses still fixt in the frames must be a record , almost three
months
got them cheap in the pound shop gave up went back to the book , try, try
again well I did try, try again , I can be rather trying I have to say the book
is well written , not as some academics books are like , boring , good at
sending me off to sleep
well I decided I'd make my self a cupper , so to the kichan I went , I vaigly
I tend to be rather vaig it has to be said recall I may have had course to
need my doubled lensed specks their , so I searched , well bugger me , their
they were , I'd needed them to read the 'how to use your new cooker''
manual
remembered I may just have needed me specks to work it out , still no wiser
goner take me mates , Keith's advice , ask me sis next, time she's around, as I
am deferentially technically challenge , with such as tecky things as cookers
found the specks slid beside the slow cooker , yup I managed to work that
teckey cooking thing out , took just three days , ok more like three weeks
so I picket them up , put them on , forgot to put on the kettle , so back to
the book I went
decided to look at the pitches , saw a pitcher of the sckleacal remains of
New Zealands , all in a line taken at Chunuk Baire some time after the war
theirs a solder , may be a New Zealander , could be a Turk , the Turks treated
the dead of their former enamys with great respect it must be said , he is
stood smartly at attention , saluting , those about to be buried
next I looked at pitches of dead British , Aussies , Kiwis , Turks, laying in no
man's land awaiting burial , or blown to smithereens
of a Digger carrying his mate down to the beach , back bent , knees ,
unbending, as he carried his mate down , not complaing , jaw set determined
to get him down , get him fixst up
of an Aussy sharing his water bottle with a wounded Turk , the Aussy has his
riffle in his left hand all 18 inches of steal on the end of his Lee Enfield rifle
''sorry Abdule , I stab your , nothing personal , mate''
'at leased I did not gut your , '' you'l be fine mate , hear have a swig of
me walter, drink as much as you like , mate''
I like to think the Australian said to the wounded Turk
Walter was worth more than gold , gold you cant drink , nor eat
pitches of solders at ease , in between , dyeing , killing , being waisted,
pitcher, of soldier looking thro a periscope , spotting for a sniper
CRACK! some pore Turkish mums son gone to the snipers skill
A pitcher of two nurses , dressed in grate coats down to their shapel
girlish ankle's , both maidan's , but mothers to countless men
They sit beside the beds, held the hands of men as they waited
to die crying, screaming for their mothers back home
I see a pitcher hear of an Australian father and son , no names
or how they come to have joined up together nor if they savvied , may be
they now lay side by side , in the Dardanelles over looking the blue
Agenan sea
theirs a pitcher of a general up a tree ,
cheeking out the the Turkish position
in front , planing the pre post, pointless attack , pointless death's
chills my blood , 90 years on,
pity he was not shot , may have saved a few , nay,
many life's of both sides,
I turn a page , it's rather grainy , just make out rowing boats , slowly
making for a beach , cant rely make out who was in those life boats (sick)
I read the writing under the pitcher '....Lancashire Fusiliers heading for ''W''
Beach , 'Many of these men would be dead with in minuets after this pitcher
was taken''
yes, I was looking at a pitcher of boats carrying my granddad, Jo,
in to battle ,
and yes, I had tears by now in my eyes , had to remove my specks , rub my
tear ducks , deep in thought .
The title of the book? ''Damn the Dardanelles!''
Ken D Williams (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)
Poetry by ken d williams
Read 1211 times
Written on 2007-06-09 at 00:58
Tags War
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WHILE READING A BOOK ON THE DARDANELLES
I popped in to a charity , animals I think , I recall , I find a few ,bargains in books , weakens of mine I have to say , I spotted a book ,
I read ''Dardanelles!'' on the cover ,
with my strong personal family interest in what happen there
The book I had to have!
when I reached my house,
I had hunted down me specks , could only find the pair with with the one
lence left in the frame
I tried me best to read the book , kinder hard as I had to have one eye shut
eavrey so offtan I'd lay the book down I'd search the room for the specks
with both lenses still fixt in the frames must be a record , almost three
months
got them cheap in the pound shop gave up went back to the book , try, try
again well I did try, try again , I can be rather trying I have to say the book
is well written , not as some academics books are like , boring , good at
sending me off to sleep
well I decided I'd make my self a cupper , so to the kichan I went , I vaigly
I tend to be rather vaig it has to be said recall I may have had course to
need my doubled lensed specks their , so I searched , well bugger me , their
they were , I'd needed them to read the 'how to use your new cooker''
manual
remembered I may just have needed me specks to work it out , still no wiser
goner take me mates , Keith's advice , ask me sis next, time she's around, as I
am deferentially technically challenge , with such as tecky things as cookers
found the specks slid beside the slow cooker , yup I managed to work that
teckey cooking thing out , took just three days , ok more like three weeks
so I picket them up , put them on , forgot to put on the kettle , so back to
the book I went
decided to look at the pitches , saw a pitcher of the sckleacal remains of
New Zealands , all in a line taken at Chunuk Baire some time after the war
theirs a solder , may be a New Zealander , could be a Turk , the Turks treated
the dead of their former enamys with great respect it must be said , he is
stood smartly at attention , saluting , those about to be buried
next I looked at pitches of dead British , Aussies , Kiwis , Turks, laying in no
man's land awaiting burial , or blown to smithereens
of a Digger carrying his mate down to the beach , back bent , knees ,
unbending, as he carried his mate down , not complaing , jaw set determined
to get him down , get him fixst up
of an Aussy sharing his water bottle with a wounded Turk , the Aussy has his
riffle in his left hand all 18 inches of steal on the end of his Lee Enfield rifle
''sorry Abdule , I stab your , nothing personal , mate''
'at leased I did not gut your , '' you'l be fine mate , hear have a swig of
me walter, drink as much as you like , mate''
I like to think the Australian said to the wounded Turk
Walter was worth more than gold , gold you cant drink , nor eat
pitches of solders at ease , in between , dyeing , killing , being waisted,
pitcher, of soldier looking thro a periscope , spotting for a sniper
CRACK! some pore Turkish mums son gone to the snipers skill
A pitcher of two nurses , dressed in grate coats down to their shapel
girlish ankle's , both maidan's , but mothers to countless men
They sit beside the beds, held the hands of men as they waited
to die crying, screaming for their mothers back home
I see a pitcher hear of an Australian father and son , no names
or how they come to have joined up together nor if they savvied , may be
they now lay side by side , in the Dardanelles over looking the blue
Agenan sea
theirs a pitcher of a general up a tree ,
cheeking out the the Turkish position
in front , planing the pre post, pointless attack , pointless death's
chills my blood , 90 years on,
pity he was not shot , may have saved a few , nay,
many life's of both sides,
I turn a page , it's rather grainy , just make out rowing boats , slowly
making for a beach , cant rely make out who was in those life boats (sick)
I read the writing under the pitcher '....Lancashire Fusiliers heading for ''W''
Beach , 'Many of these men would be dead with in minuets after this pitcher
was taken''
yes, I was looking at a pitcher of boats carrying my granddad, Jo,
in to battle ,
and yes, I had tears by now in my eyes , had to remove my specks , rub my
tear ducks , deep in thought .
The title of the book? ''Damn the Dardanelles!''
Ken D Williams (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)
Poetry by ken d williams
Read 1211 times
Written on 2007-06-09 at 00:58
Tags War
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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