Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Thousandth Regiment - 10. "Your straggly seats, do blaze like leopard spots"
.
This is the first poem (and perhaps the last) I feel needs an opening comment. It’s an angry and frustrated poem.
Although we think of WW1 as a grueling contest of attrition, stalemated across trench lines, it did not start that way. On the Western Front, German infantry initially pushed to within 19 miles of their objective, within shelling range of Paris. The order to begin sieging the French capital never came, and soon British and French troops pushed the Germans back.
Eventually the offensive ground to a halt and the British and French dug in with defensive trenches. For someone like Hans, fed the line that this would be a quick war measured in weeks, not years, the deadly degrading of the conflict to trench warfare raised feelings of resentment.
This is the background you need to keep in mind proceeding into the poem.
---
10. Ihr dürren Plätze, grell wie Leoparden,
Das gelbe Fell mit Flecken Wald besät,
Schwefel- und Phosphorrauch sind eure Narden,
Die Tag für Tag um eure Lenden weht.
Und immer toben Schlachten über euch
Mit schwerem Schwall von stürmenden Soldaten,
Und immer schlagen zündende Granaten
Die Zähne tief in Heide und Gesträuch.
Ihr kleines Frankreich oder Englands Täler,
Wo der verborgene Krieg schon hallend naht,
Ihr Flächen Ödland ohne Vieh und Korn,
Tragt schon die Runenschrift von unsrem Zorn,
Der aufgerißnen Schollen brandige Mäler
Und tief im Schoß die schwere Eisensaat.
---
10. Your straggly seats, do blaze like leopard spots,
The jaundiced hide stubbled with pin trees,
While sulfur- phosphor's your noxious unguent,
Wafting day after day from your private parts.
And ever slaughter runs riot over you
With ponderous surges of smoking soldiers,
And always bleat the firing of grenades
From those teeth-deep in heather and shrubbery.
Your "little valleys" of France and England,
Where already echoes the entrenched war,
Are barren wastelands not fit for cows or grain.
Conceive in ruins then with the fruit of our wrath,
The torn-open gangrenous clods multiply,
Laid heavily in womb with iron seed-corn.
---
_
- 1
- 4
- 3
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Recommended Comments
Chapter Comments
-
Newsletter
Sign Up and get an occasional Newsletter. Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.