Anzac Day tomorrow, 25 April
 

The most moving poem that seems to encapsulate the continuing futility and trauma of war, written by Kenneth Slessor at just 20 years of age, first published in the <i>Sydney Sun</i> on 25 April 1921, where he worked as a journalist.

<b>April 25</b>

<b>Morning. But does the daystar weep,
Do the trees weep for the dead?
O false! The lights of sunrise leap
Through ivory skies instead.

Night smokes afar, the mist-maids cling,
The world spins on its way;
Only the birds remember, and sing
What men can never say.

Is it a bird which fills the air
Over Australia flying?
Somehow it sounds as if somewhere
A soul is crying.</b>


(c) D.H Haskell &amp; G. Dutton, <i>Kenneth Slessor Collected Poems</i> (Sydney: Angus &amp; Robertson, 1994).

Thanks for your post, furrytiles.

There was a fear that the remembrance of Anzac Day would go as most of the old diggers have, but nice to see the crowds all over Australia and presumably, New Zealand, turn up for the services. And a record crowd of Australians and New Zealanders at services in Gallipoli, Turkey; where it all started.

We met several Kiwis and Aussies when we were in Turkey in April 2000. That's when we learned what Anzac Day was all about and were interested to learn that the Turkish people were welcoming and as eager to remember and forge bonds of friendship as the NZers and OZers. We did not go to the celebration, but read about it in the paper.
Sally in Seattle

So true, Pat. I found such a connection between this poem, written by such a <u>young</u> man three years after the Great War's end but almost a decade before any organised Anzac Day remembrance and honour ceremonies, and the sea of <u>young</u> faces so full of emotion at the dawn service in Gallipoli.

The Last Post bugle gave goosebumps and a lump in the throat.

The attendance numbers at the dawn services and marches (most in the blessed rain) are growing every year, and each year I am equally moved.

Sally, there is a beautiful inscription at Gallipoli, a tribute to the foreign soldiers, by Ataturk, that portrays the respect the opposing soldiers had for each other in those horrendous conditions ...

<i><b>&quot;Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives... You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us, where they lie side by side here in this country of ours... You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears; Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.&quot;</b></i>

Lest we forget,
Jackie

The same inscription, more or less, is on the Kemal Ataturk memorial at the top of Anzac Parade, Canberra, directly opposite the Australian War Memorial. It's the only one of the many memorials lining the Parade dedicated to a former enemy - or for that matter any foreign country except New Zealand (and it's a bit hard to see the Kiwis as foreigners, especially in this context).

I never fail to be moved by the services for Anzac Day. Most of the media commentators mentioned that there has been a huge resurgence in attendance at the Dawn Service, marches etc across the board - particularly from the young. The most important message being &quot;Lest we forget&quot;.

My favourite Slessor war poem is Beach Burial I cannot recite or even read the lines, &quot;the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin - &quot; without choking up. Too much bewildered pity and not enough thoughtful pity in this world yet! Here is the poem for your enjoyment.

Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.

Between the sob and clubbing of gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;


And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -


&quot;Unknown seaman&quot; - the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men's lips,


Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as ememies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.



Kenneth Slessor