Great War Poems

Poem By Adrian Henri


The same old soldiers walking along the same old skyline


Dead hand through the sandbags reaching out for the cream­and ­white butterfly


mud/water under duckboards/mud/rats scamper in starshell darkness/mud/smell of shit and rotting bodies/mud/resting your sweaty forehead on the sandbags OVER THE TOP the first men in the lunar landscape.


What did you do to the Great Whore, Daddy?'


Poppies slightly out­of­focus and farmcarts bringing in the peaceful dead.


The ghost of Wilfred Oven selling matches outside the Burlington Arcade.


Seafog. Red flaring lights from the shore batteries. The roar of shells rattle of machineguns. Water running in the bilges. My feet slipping on the damp cobbles of the quayside.




four white feathers clutched in a blood­stained envelope


a skull nestling in a bed of wild strawberries/boots mouldering green with fungus/saplings thrusting through rusting helmets/sunken barges drifting full of leaves down autumn rivers.

Comments about Great War Poems

Very strong soulful poem... Feeling with unfair war Healthy youths... Thinking they are heros... Are waiting to reach Their unknown destiny...! Sylva-MD-Poetry

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Other poems of HENRI

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Love is feeling cold in the back of vans

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Without you every morning would feel like going back to work after a holiday,
Without you I couldn't stand the smell of the East Lancs Road,
Without you ghost ferries would cross the Mersey manned by skeleton crews,
Without you I'd probably feel happy and have more money and time and

In The Midnight Hour

When we meet
in the midnight hour
country girl
I will bring you night flowers

Any Prince To Any Princess

August is coming
and the goose, I'm afraid,
is getting fat.

The New `our Times' (For Mix Fénéon)

At 3 p.m. yesterday, a Mr Adolphus Edwards, a Jamaican immigrant, was pecked to death by a large Bronze Eagle in Upper Parliament St. A U.S. State Dept. spokesman said later, `We have no comment to make as of this time.'

Adrian Henri's Last Will And Testament

`No one owns life, but anyone who can pick up a Fryingpan owns death.'
William Burroughs