Monday, 14 April 2014

Reanna's Anzac Poetry


My name was drawn out of the hat for going to war.
But I still refused to go.
People started calling me a coward and most of all, a conscientious objector.

Conscientious objectors are unpopular
Apparently it’s not fair that fathers and sons go to war and I don’t,
So I had to be a stretcher-bearer.
Even though it wasn’t my choice . . .

Gun fires skim my head
As I peep out of the revolting trenches
All I hear are screams and yelling.
I’m a stretcher-bearer for New Zealand.

I see soldiers from our side
Falling down like flies.
I race to them and pick them up on my stretcher bed.
I see blood dripping down by their leg.

Suddenly my shoulder feels heavy,
I feel dizzy and like I am going to fall down immediately
Then everything around me stops.
I drop down to the ground.

I got shot.
Straight in the shoulder.
My eyes slowly close
The soldiers rush to me 
And bury me carefully in Flanders Field where the poppies blow.

Picture by Ernest Brooks

1 comment:

  1. I liked how you took a different perspective on this. It made people think about the idea of duty. A goal for poetry writing will be to look at rhyjthm and pattern in stanzas.