I wrote this poem years ago, around about the time the second Gulf War began. As you’ll see, the first line of the poem includes the name of the poet Wilfred Owen, who I was studying at the time for my A-Levels. His poems boded well at the time; which highlighted the social class power struggles in the army, as well as the realities of war.
We Never Learn
About the war to end all wars.
Yet a hundred years on,
Since the banks of the Somme,
We still commit the same blood-stained flaws.
Nothing has been learned
Yet everything has been lost
To the voice of power and a bullet from a gun.
To where the blood and money flows,
Yet it’s a scene we re-run and re-run and re-run.
Arms are sold,
The pillars remain in place,
While the surviving cannon fodder saunter back to their abodes.
Grass grows back,
Bridges are rebuilt,
Then we wait for peace to again corrode.
Fangs are shown,
Flags are flown,
And the media drops bombs of sensationalism.
Rifles are loaded,
Battle lines are drawn,
As we return to the haunts of nihilism.