Slaves to a New King

Tags

Achaemenid Empire, Alexander the Great, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Darius the Great, East versus West, Formal poetry, Persian Empire, Persian Empire vassal states, Persian invasion of Greece, poem, poetry, Refugees from the Levant, Spenserian sonnet, Syrian refugees, The Levant, Western Civilization, Xerces the Great

Be welcoming? Show kindness and compassion?
No! Self defense must be the Hellene’s goal.
This new, naive (some say progressive) fashion:
To rescue every body and each soul,
Must surely of a nation take its toll.
They once repulsed the pushy Persian tossers.
It wasn’t in their nature to console
Darius and King Xerces for their losses.
The Persians now nail Christians to their crosses;
They blindly follow leaders cruel and mad —
Fanatical, insane, barbaric bosses;
Yet for their plight today’s Greeks should be sad?
The ancient Greek admired the free and brave;
He thought the Persian, to his King, a slave.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Syrian Hill

Tags

2nd AIF, 7th Division 2nd AIF, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Hill 1054 Syria, poem, poetry, Syria, The Levant, Vichy French, Vichy French in Syria

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥

In the cruel Levant lies the Syrian hill,
And the men who hold it have strength and will.
And two of the men who would take the height,
Mere boys when they landed, now men who’ll fight
The French and their vassals, the Senegalese.
From the distant south — the Antipodes,
They are seen once more in an ancient land
Where the blood of their fathers, it stains the sand.
And soon will theirs flow on this rocky mound;
But now do they dig in the blasted ground.
And the shells fly near and the air it groans
As they shake the hill and the buried bones
Of the countless soldiers who here have died
For a sultan’s dream or a far king’s pride.
Now their bayonets fixed for the last mad rush
That will seal their fate or their dark foes crush.
One looks to his right and his mate looks back,
As the air explodes — then a shout:”Attack!”
One looks to his right and his mate lies there,
And glazed are his eyes and there’s blood in his hair.
But the charge is on and the scene’s a blur.
There are shouts and shells and the bullets whir.
At the Senegalese do their officers scream,
But it is the end of a mad French dream,
As the Frenchmen flee and the French flag falls.
And the Vichy French from their towering walls,
Now their last hope gone, fly surrender’s flag.
And upon the hill with a Frenchman’s rag,
With the tricolour is a bandage made
For a soldier wounded — his mate is laid
With the others who on that day had paid
With their bright young lives for a barren mound.
Now I think of them when I hear the sound
Of a bugle blown — of the boys who fell;
Of the wounded soldier I knew so well.

— D.N. O’Brien

{𝘐𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 2/25𝘵𝘩 𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯 7𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 2𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘐𝘍 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘏𝘪𝘭𝘭 1054, 𝘚𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢 8𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘺 1941 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘕𝘰𝘦𝘭 𝘖’𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯 — 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 12𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘺}