“The Dumb Soldier” / “George W. Bush Thinks Of His Soldiers”

by John Shore on July 16, 2008 in Christian Issues · 7 comments

The other day I was reading through Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic book of children’s poems, “A Child’s Garden of Verse,” when I came across the poem below. It’s entitled ”The Dumb Soldier.” Having read it, there was no way I could stop myself from imagining an alternative title to this poem being “George W. Bush Thinks Of His Soldiers.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN the grass was closely mown,  
Walking on the lawn alone,  
In the turf a hole I found  
And hid a soldier underground.  
  
Spring and daisies came apace;
Grasses hide my hiding place;  
Grasses run like a green sea  
O’er the lawn up to my knee.  
  
Under grass alone he lies,  
Looking up with leaden eyes, 
Scarlet coat and pointed gun,  
To the stars and to the sun.  
  
When the grass is ripe like grain,  
When the scythe is stoned again,  
When the lawn is shaven clear,
Then my hole shall reappear.  
  
I shall find him, never fear,  
I shall find my grenadier;  
But for all that’s gone and come,  
I shall find my soldier dumb. 
  
He has lived, a little thing,  
In the grassy woods of spring;  
Done, if he could tell me true,  
Just as I should like to do.  
  
He has seen the starry hours
And the springing of the flowers;  
And the fairy things that pass  
In the forests of the grass.  
  
In the silence he has heard  
Talking bee and ladybird,
And the butterfly has flown  
O’er him as he lay alone.  
  
Not a word will he disclose,  
Not a word of all he knows.  
I must lay him on the shelf, 
And make up the tale myself.

 

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{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }

samwrites2 July 16, 2008 at 5:48 am

John,
Nice, but my favorite is still Randall Jarrell’s “Death of a Ball Turret Gunner” and Thomas Hardy’s “The Man He Killed.”
As far as contemporary poetry based on the Iraq War, might I suggest Brian Turner’s “Here, Bullet.” to you?
I don’t think Bush reads poetry, though, and think of him as “empathetically-challenged” – a condition I’m struggling to overcome.
-Sam

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ric booth July 16, 2008 at 3:24 am

I love poetry. It is so much more powerful than just,"The victor writes the history."

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wineymomma July 16, 2008 at 2:45 am

President Bush often comes across as empty and unfeeling but, I feel that he is far more aware of the soldier than his predecessor.

I would like to pose this question: Why do you want our military to withdraw from the Middle East? or what should the United States do about the situation in the Middle East?

Just wondering…

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B. Han July 16, 2008 at 2:09 am

Interesting twist on Bush; as opposed to thousands of politically oriented rant; it does make us wonder how to leave this guy in the footprints of history.

Sometimes fiction, whether poem or novel, has been a greater echo of an age than media report or news….about Bush there is this book called America 2014 I read a while ago that's really good; it's about imagining a totalitarian U.S. run by Bush-like character…ringing a bell to 1984; if interested go check it out at america2014.com

Thanks for the reflection.

B. Han

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Greta July 16, 2008 at 1:49 am

Not to sound trite, but what's done is done . . . may we learn the lesson that war doesn't end the struggle between human/cultural mindsets. Forgiveness is what heals the land . . . moves us on to better things for the children of those who fell in the name of patriotism.

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Dan Harrell July 16, 2008 at 1:46 am

I think Bush would have used this.

In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

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