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Best Poems Written by Terry Vannecksurplice

Below are the all-time best Terry Vannecksurplice poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

Bomber Command

BOMBER  COMMAND

It won’t happen to me
he said,
we’re Bomber Command.

It won’t happen to me
he said.
We must blow the enemy out of the sky
he said.
we’re Bomber Command

The pride and belligerence of the Reich
it’s Hitler’s war on Europe
and it’s my sixteenth sortie out tonight,
he said
we’re Bomber Command

Somewhere in the Rhineland 
his body lies
He gave his life for his country
but he gave mine too
in Bomber Command.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

The Six Day War

THE  SIX DAYS  WAR
     --------------------------------

The sweet smell of orange blossom
wafted along the sandy paths
hovered over the concrete sidewalks
and entered the open windows
shaded with green blinds

Pure sunlight seemed to engulf us
students of biblical studies.
the heat haze played gently from the sea
and a sense of history
settled on our shoulders.

City gents passed by
at a fast, inflationary pace.
We did not mind them
as we made our way to the Arab bazaar
down the side streets.

How we remembered the bazaar,
there were rubbishy carvings and metalwork,
and orange blossom was lost in the spices
and the black coffee.
how they wooed us.

Such charm these people of the bazaar
but above all I remember the colour,
there were hangings for the house
silks for the dresses
scarves against the dust.

Then, as we walked along the timeless streets,
bathed in the sunshine and the orange blossom
came the boom of gunfire.
Canons raided the tranquillity
with rocketing noise.

Here was the land of the Prince of Peace
shaken in the April light
shaken at the Passover,
not escaping from Egypt
but conquering the West Bank.

On April the 7th
friction between neighbours
became terrible war 40 years long
and the colourful bazaars
collapsed in hostility and dust.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

The Menin Gate At Ypres

My Father Took me to the Menin Gate
lest I should not know that lives were lost
to make me free.
Then at the cemetery I fell asleep
while he walked along the rows on soft grass between the crosses

Then I heard the tanks roll around
a heavy grinding hell raising sound
that crunched the gravel.
Before the echo died came boots of soldiers.
I seemed to see them travel
along the road ahead all brown
and swinging trouser legs

Above the sound of boots
and breathless gasps of marching men
were wheels and wheels
and rumbling trucks
the swish of lighted flares
gunshot glow and bombard shoots

I could not wake myself, I had to hear
those boots upon the gravel
Then as I woke myself it seemed like blood red rain
was falling down. But through the mist
those white crosses rose, arms out, began to fly
above the cemetery up into the blue sky.

Like flocks of swans they rose
with strange gladsome sound
and disappeared into the blue-grey sky
time passing as so many joined
the upwards wave of spirits
above my exhausted self.

Soldiers of the Commonwealth lie here
black and brown and grey and white
in peace, I hope, not hearing what I heard,
the rosary of sorrow, Passchendales site
that kept off foreign troops from Belgian Soil
until another night.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

War Photographer

I photograph the violence but am not part of it:
Machine guns point like the cypress trees.
They drop for a moment ready to erect,
at the charge of desire
they burst into fire.

I photograph not only the cruelty but the sorrow,
the silent anguish of the lost and displaced.
A secure world has been upturned.
In bewildered eyes
I see my childhood and surmise.

I photograph the young body ravished with gunshot,
the  strong man dismembered
the tough flesh-torn women.
For some, blood is a sexual wound,
a cut of desire
in the gun fire.

I photograph the clothes-peg mission camp,
flat like match sticks on the floor
or a shattered crater on the moon
with ribbon rags
stuck on the crags.

I photograph from my pinnacle of survival and pain,
flickering sparks for casual glances.
Only a few understand there is ecstasy
torn apart but tied
the man alive to they who died.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

Her Nottingham Granny At Chilwell

Ten women were injured on the factory floor,
they lost an arm in the whirring blade.                              
They did not know how bombs were made,
Their injuries matched the men at war.

But their names are not on a memorial plaque,
on the memorial arch there are men on the front
they are not on the back.
Men could not fight if bombs were not made.

Her grandmother died in the First World War
she was making bombs for the troops to use.
The factory caught fire with a faulty fuse
two hundred and fifty women – what did they die for?

But their names are not on a memorial plaque,
on the memorial arch there are men on the front
they are not on the back.
Men could not fight if bombs were not made.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

The Yellow Canary

His mind was full of bonfires
his chest full of mustard gas
as he coughed all day
If only I could die
he would have thought
if he could have thought.

She sat beside him holding  his hand,
her face pock-marked and yellow
from the munitions factory
No one knew   
what the chemical ration could do 
but she sat crooning her song.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

The Menin Gate At Ypres

My Father took me to the Menin Gate
lest I should not knot that lives were lost
to make me free.
Then at the cemetery I fell asleep
while he walked along the rows
on soft grass between the crosses.
 
Then I heard the tanks roll round
a heavy grinding hell-raising sound
that crunched the gravel.
Before the echo died came boots of soldiers.
I seemed to see them travel
along the road ahead all brown
and swinging trouser legs.

Above the
sound of boots
and breathless gasps of marching men
were wheels and wheels
and rumbling trucks
the swish of lighted flares
gunshot glow and bombard shoots

I could not wake myself, I had to hear
those boots upon the gravel.
Then as I woke myself it seemed like blood red rain
was falling down. But through the mist 
those white crosses rose, arms out, began to fly
above the cemetery up into the blue sky.

Like flocks of swans they rose 
with strange gladsome sound
and disappeared into the blue-grey sky,
time passing as so many joined
the upwards wave of spirits
above my exhausted self.

Soldiers of the Commonwealth lie here,
black and brown and grey and white
in peace, I hope, not hearing what I heard,
the rosary of sorrow, Passchendaele's site
that kept off foreign troops from Belgian soil
until another night.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

Postcript From Palestine

Dust descending
fills my ears and nose:
small stones loosened from the soft rock
bleed our faces and our arms......

the smell of this cellar
the drought of this cellar
the echoing sound of this cellar
the rumble of this cellar
the body that lies in our arms

Why are we smothered like rats in this pothole
lying in the dark, shaken with fear
teeth trembling on the volcano?

We have no light in our darkness
no light in our cities
only the fire from the bombs of our neighbours.
They have flattened our power, our water, our sewage
the roads that bring food to the market
the exit of refugees
these bombs of out neighbours.

the smell of this cellar
the drought of this cellar
the echoing sounds of this cellar
the rumbling of thunder in this cellar
the body that lies in our arms

They bomb us on the beaches
for democratic decisions.
They have a hundred of rockets, American planes,helicopters and radar
to our small retaliation

the smell of this cellar
the drought of this cellar
the echoing sounds of this cellar
the rumbling of thunder in this cellar
the body that lies in our arms

For one prisoner
we have lost the power station, our light, our lives, our peace;
death comes to mothers and children on the beaches, the schools, the market place
traumatised, maimed they kill us.
They will not overturn our decision- it stands.

Dear Mother, I would come to you
we have no aerodrome- here or in Lebanon.
Your grandchildren I would bring to you
I would come from my democratic country only for them
but I am stuck in the shower of dirt in this cellar.

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

Belfast

He was a Catholic, my man
not me, I'm C of E
but they shot him,
my man

He did not help the IRA
no way
Quietly working at his job
his way
We were a family, 2 girls, 2 boys
us 4
No cash to spare when they demanded more

They beat him up
when coming home
and by the churchyard shot him
all alone

It may be peace now
but I fear
they'll take my son now for revenge
near here

Oh they say there is peace now
and shame
but there is still the massacres and the shootings
in God's name

Details | Terry Vannecksurplice Poem

The Parachute Drop

Swaying
undulating
like bouquets from heaven
so gently descending
in white waves
the flowers of youth came down.

They kissed the tall trees
and church spires
as they made for the village green
and the roads
and back gardens seen
on the way 
to the aerodrome

It was blue sky above us
white clouds with no motion
Sunday bells ringing
as we watched from the windows.
Peace all around
soon to be shattered

As the parachutes landed
we saw soldier men
and guns to the fore.
They missed Biggin Hill
but we caught them
on a quiet Sunday morning
when a vision of flowers his death at our door.