GRANDMOTHER MADGE'S DECEMBER 1938 POEMS.

(The little black ring binder she typed these poems in is dated through April of 1941. My mother was born in November of 1941 and so there must have been things to do other than sit around and write poetry. I'm guessing. There might be other books that I haven't found yet. Madge loved poetry, she loved the opera. I have a scrapbook she made with all kinds of pictures and poems she cut out of magazines.)

WAR I

A call to arms.

A rumble of drums and blaring bugles.

Loud speeches about "love of country", "liberty", 'World Peace"--

These made by men who are too old to fight

Or else by those whose business here at home must needs be carried on by them.

"It's up to you!" --they cry out to Youth--

And Youth, Hope of the World, as always answers to the call

Of something new; a job that must be done by them--

A fight to win, to gain great honor--

No word is said about the ones who needs must die before the battle's won.

"Your country needs you" --that's the cry--

"Enlist!"

Enlistment over, training done, the battle comes.

We see upon the field our Youth,

No longer young--no longer seeing glory--

Disillusion deep lies in his heart.

He does not understand--he knows one thing

That he must kill!

We see our Youth--?

I see a fiend--

A gun and bayonet are in his hand,

A wild animal-gleam is in his eye--

Kill! Fight and, maybe, die!

Is this the end?

Is this the creature that God made

to rule the world?

Is this--this beast--this lustful, bloodthirsty animal--God's work of art?

Is this the End that's meant for him?

What's happened?

Where is God?

WAR II

How can I write of war and strife

When only men can know the soldiers' load.

The weary marching, mile on mile,

The heavy packs, the mud, the smile

That learns to come when on the road

Man fails and falls and, maybe, dies--

Is thrown into a wide, deep trench

To lie. They know the stench

Of unwashed bodies, flies and lice

That irritate all patience--

And the killing and the screams

That will ever haunt their dreams.

This is the war men know

How can I tell of it?

And yet, I, too, have had my part.

I, too, now the terror that it brings--

The slowly dragging hours during battle

When I knew not whether he was dead or living,

Watching lists--starting at the sound of door or telephone

For fear I'd hear the message that I dreaded,

Seeing a name among those listed missing

I'd feel a panic in my heart.

No prayer just then.

On cold and rainy nights it was the worst, I guess--

Thinking of how he thought of home and me,

The children and warm fires.

Yes, then it was the worst.

He hated war. He was a peaceful, loving man

Who knew no foe. He loved his fellows and his God.

This war, from which we were so far apart,

Was worse to both of us than hell.

I could not even weep within my heart

When word first came to me that he was killed.

(Now here is one from January 1939.)

Night Tragedy

I watched the cold, pearl boat tonight

That sails upon the blue.

Her prow makes cold and misty spray

That chills me through and through.

All night I watched her slowly ride

The deep, dark ocean sky

And when the dawn came in I sighed

To think that she must lie

At rest within the Port of Day

When the shining sun was high.

(And now we go to April, 1939 for this next poem.)

WAR III

What reason do they give to men

for dying thus?

How do they tell them it's for

truth and right?

How can men so deceive their fellows that

They'll take their guns in hand,

Their country in their hearts,

And fight and fight?

How can men so deceive their fellows

And lead them blindly forth,

Like sheep, to slaughter?