Once on Chunuk Bair

 

Once on Chunuk Bair

(Wellington Regiment, August 8, 1915)

We moved through dark in single file, no sound, no careless tread,

Each heartbeat loud as cannon fire, each thought of home instead.

The stars looked down with watchful eyes, the earth was cold and bare,

And every man who climbed that slope left half his courage there.

 

No talk, no smoke, no clatter made, just breath and muted fear,

The taste of dust and iron’s tang, the whisper, “Almost there.”

A man slipped once — we froze in place, our nerves a tightened wire,

The night so thick, so close, so still, it smothered all desire.

 

We reached the crest before first light; the world seemed held in prayer,

Then dawn broke wide — a bastard dawn — and hell was waiting there.

The hill exploded, men went down, as lead tore through the air,

The order came to hold the ground, though none were left to spare.

 

They came in waves, the Turks below, their shouting split the sky,

And all we knew was hold the line and shoot until we die.

A Vickers jammed — old Benny laughed and smacked it with his hat,

A shell came in, took Ben and gun, and left no more than that.

 

We called for help — none ever came, command was miles behind,

Those officers with silver spoons and maps that made us blind.

They sent us up with whispered prayers and rifles short on rounds,

While comfort stayed on safer ships and watched from foreign grounds.

 

By noon the ridge was red with blood, the air was burnt and sore,

You couldn’t tell the living ones from those who’d breathe no more.

They said we took the hill that day — I guess we must have done,

But victory’s a hollow word when half your mates are none.

 

At dusk the world grew strangely calm, the guns had lost their bite,

The sea was gold; the sky was fire — it might have been a sight.

But beauty means no bloody thing when pain’s the price you pay,

And those who spoke before the dawn were mostly dead by day.

 

The medics worked with trembling hands, the sand was soaked in red,

One asked for water through cracked lips — his bottle held sand instead.

I sat beside him, said no word, just watched the daylight fade,

And wondered if the gods themselves regret the men they made.

 

They call us brave — perhaps we were, or simply too afraid,

Too proud to turn our backs and run from choices others made.

That’s war, I guess — the upper brass all safe and clean and dry,

While lads like us were fed uphill and left alone to die.

 

Years later a son returned to where that hill still stands,

The grass had grown, the stones were clean, no blood upon his hands.

He climbed that same old battered hill beneath a kinder sky,

Where gulls wheeled over rusted shards and poppies dared to lie.

 

He touched the names upon the slab, so many gone, so near,

And almost heard old Benny laugh — “First man up buys the bloody beer!”

He found his father’s name engraved upon that granite stone,

A single line, but heavy still — he didn’t die alone.

 

He knelt and brushed the dust away, the wind was sharp and clear,

And through the hush he heard again — “First man up buys the bloody beer.”

He stood and faced the rising sun, the same that lit that day,

And felt the ghosts move through the grass before they slipped away.

 

No drum, no gun, no bugle call — just silence, proud and bare,

And one young man who understood what happened at Chunuk Bair.

The wind came cold across the ridge, and whispered through the air,

The kind of sound that chills the soul — Remember Chunuk Bair.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

Within My Father’s Stride

 

Within My Father’s Stride

 

Each dawn,

I walk the path my father knew —

where morning mist reveals the world anew.

His shadow lingers softly by my side,

a whisper guiding me

within his stride.

 

Through fields once sown by calloused, faithful hands,

I feel the pulse of time

beneath the lands.

Each day’s a test — and oft I fall behind,

failing the hopes

he planted in my mind.

 

He spoke not loud —

yet truth in silence burned;

through humble deeds,

the greater lessons learned.

He met the storm, unbowed, yet full of grace,

and left the light of kindness

in his place.

 

Sometimes my faith, found wanting, drifts aside;

I falter, lost —

and stumble out of stride.

When seeds of envy choke the roots of day,

dark weeds of doubt

obscure my rightful way.

 

Yet when in awe I’m struck by all his work,

by dawns that shine

where unseen blessings lurk,

my compass realigns,

my mind resets —

the soul remembers,

and the heart forgets.

 

For still, I feel his guiding hand incline,

in all things good,

revealing love’s design.

His faith still breathes

within the world’s wide tide —

and I still walk,

within my father’s stride.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

Beneath the Burden of Weight

 

Beneath the Burden of Weight

He rose from stone and sky alike,

his shoulders built to bear the stars,

the endless wheel of night and day,

the thunder’s pulse, the clash of wars.

The gods had fled their ancient thrones,

and left him chained to fate’s command—

to hold the heavens lest they fall,

and crush the fragile earth by hand.

 

Now ages pass, and myths decay,

his burden shifts, but still remains.

It’s not the sky that weighs him down,

but man’s indifference, greed, and chains.

He feels the tremor of despair,

the cries of hearts that go unheard,

the silence bought by wealth and fear,

the promise drowned in broken words.

 

And now the world he tried to keep

collapses where compassion died—

the rich build towers out of ash,

while children starve on streets outside.

The oceans choke, the forests burn,

the meek are trampled, cast away,

and Atlas—bleeding, bowed, and blind—

still bears the world we’ve torn today.

 

Now cities howl beneath the smoke,

their lights like dying embers fade.

The air is thick with human cries,

the hunger, rage, and debts unpaid.

He hears the pounding of the lost,

their fists upon the walls of stone,

and feels the earth convulse with grief—

a planet breaking, bone by bone.

 

And from the dust the displaced come,

to ruins where their lives began—

with empty hands, no strength to build,

no faith left in their fellow man.

They walk the unforgiving wastes,

where long lost children taint the air,

and time moves on, erasing all—

a world forgets it did not care.

 

Lost souls of people cast aside,

he bears their sorrow evermore—

the weight of ignorance and pride,

the sighted blind, the hearts gone sore.

He sees the ruin, knows the cost—

and mourns the world that mankind lost.

He weeps, yet knows it must be so—

for man must reap the seeds they sow.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

At the Junction on Crucifix Corner

 

At the Junction on Crucifix Corner

 

Out on the Somme, beside a sideroad, between Albert and Bapaume,

Great War pilgrims pause in silence, where memories whispers on.

There lies a place called Crucifix Corner, beneath some ancient trees,

Where stands a cast-iron cross of faith for every soul that sees.

 

This wayside crucifix, once common all through France,

Survived the shell and fire of war — as if by saintly chance.

Pinned to its weathered arms, Christ’s vision greets the air,

A figure bowed in agony, a symbol of despair.

 

His head is turned, his pain profound, his words once filled the sky:

“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” — his final, pleading cry.

Then softly, “Father, to your hands my spirit I commend,”

Leaving us with haunting thoughts no reason can defend.

 

The cross recalls the sacrifice of soldiers, side by side,

Whose blood was shed at High Wood, and how so many died.

Christians against Christians — who could have foreseen

Brethren killing brethren on that tortured, blood-stained green?

 

Just northward lies High Wood — Bois des Fourcaux its name —

Where 8,000 rest beneath the leaves, no marker to their fame.

The wise tread lightly through that place, where silent shadows keep,

And in the hush of Death Valley, their restless spirits sleep.

 

The ground is scarred with shell-holes, trenches, relics of the fight,

Each crater holds its history, each dawn recalls the night.

Visitors who stand and gaze, beneath the solemn sky,

Reflect on human folly — and softly ask us why.

 

Why did they make the sacrifice, for a war that was not won?

How did faith endure the roar of gun on gun?

How did dying men find peace, as their final prayers were said?

How can slaughter yield redemption, or sanctify the dead?

 

Let us remember, not to chide, nor judge, nor to condemn,

But honour what they suffered — and learn from all of them.

For answers do not rest in words, nor even what was taught;

They lie within the hearts of those who bore the fight — and fought.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct2025)

The Price That Freedom Wrought

 

The Price That Freedom Wrought

 

On roads of ruin, soldiers tread,

Through fields of nameless, numbered dead;

The sight of slaughter, raw and sore—

They’d not been told what war was for.

 

Death measured out in broken forms,

In twisted flesh and bullet storms;

The dogs and crows their watchmen grim,

The sun burned low, the light grew dim.

 

And still men asked—how can it be,

This price for human liberty?

In blood of children, women slain,

What victory can truth contain?

 

The war-lords counted cost in gain,

In profit drawn from human pain;

Their ledgers filled, their conscience clear,

While soldiers drowned in grief and fear.

 

Some lucky few were homeward bound,

Yet peace for them was never found;

They fought new wars within their mind,

The fallen faces left behind.

 

Best not to ask what they have known,

What shadows they have called their own;

What dreams they lost, what hope they gave,

To mask the horrors they forgave.

 

Their spirits bent, their faith undone,

Beneath the same eternal sun;

They knelt in mud, with trembling hand,

And prayed for what they’d understand.

 

The Mother wept, the Son looked on,

Both sides beneath the same pale dawn;

For all who kill and all who die

Still raise one prayer into the sky.

 

Will they be cleansed, or just forget,

The debt of blood, the long regret?

The people suffered—God, they bled—

And still remember what was said:

 

Be wary the face of war,

For freedom’s price is never small;

And those who send the young to die

Should bear the burden of them all.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (October 2025)

The Haka in the House "They Cry, We Cry, Aotearoa"

 

The Haka in the House

 

They Cry, We Cry, Aotearoa

 

Outside — the wind in gusts and gales so often blown,

Within these walls where mixed seeds are sown.

And upon this sacred ground where you place your feet,

In halls and corridors where indifference meets.

Lo, the winds of change, in their assertion cast,

So much doubt — redress and rightful claims recast.

But now a call to rise, each one, to stand —

You cannot bind the spirit of the land

Within a long white shroud, nor have the Haka banned.

For here, Waiata and Haka both must take their place,

Beside our anthem — steadfast, filled with grace.

 

Waiata (English)

 

You can no longer hold the tide,

Nor we, in shifting winds, divide.

In bonds of love, let hearts now meet,

Oh, hear our voices rise — entreat.

For we are one, by treaty signed, our fate,

A partnership once promised — let it now awake.

 

Waiata (Māori)

 

E kore e aukatia te tai e pari mai nei,

E kore e wehea te hau e pupuhi nei.

I roto i te aroha ka tūtaki ngā ngākau,

Whakarongo ki te reo kotahi e karanga atu ana.

He whenua kotahi, he moemoeā kotahi,

He tiriti tuku rangimārie, kia tū tahi.

 

(The tide cannot be held, the wind cannot divide —

In love our hearts meet, one voice calls;

One land, one dream, one treaty of peace —

To stand as one.)

 

Haka (English)

 

We thirst — we thirst — to be heard, to be heard!

Our ancient right and privilege — to be heard!

But first, the chains must break,

The shackles fall, the veils of smoke unmake.

Within this land, beneath this house,

Our ancestors restless, stir and rouse.

Inside these walls their spirit bound,

Yet still, in us, their voice is found.

They spoke of equity — of honour to be —

We thirst again to hear the Haka proud,

We thirst — we thirst — to speak aloud!

 

Haka (Māori)

 

E hiakai ana mātou — kia rangona!

E hiakai ana mātou — kia rangona!

Whati ngā here, wawahia ngā mekameka!

Whakakorea te kapua, kia kitea te ao mārama!

I raro i te whenua, e korikori ana ngā tūpuna,

I runga i te whenua, e tū ana mātou!

Kia kaha te ngākau, kia maia te reo!

Whakarongo! E tangi ana te whenua!

E hiakai ana mātou — kia rangona!

 

(We hunger — to be heard!

Break the bonds, shatter the chains!

Clear the smoke, let the light be seen!

Below, the ancestors stir — above, we stand!

Be strong of heart, be bold of voice!

Listen — the land itself cries out!

We hunger — to be heard!)

 

Karakia o te Kotahitanga — Prayer of Unity

 

Let the dawn break — ka ao, ka ao!

Let light return upon this land.

Let hearts unlearn the fear they know,

And courage take each open hand.

 

For ignorance has cast its shroud,

Its whisper spread from hill to cloud,

Yet knowledge waits — and kindness grows,

Where once division’s river flows.

 

No longer two, nor torn apart,

But bound in spirit, bound in heart.

Let truth be heard — both fierce and fair,

Aotearoa — all standing there.

 

Ka whakatika te iwi kotahi,

Ka rangona ngā reo katoa.

He whenua kotahi, he aroha nui —

Ka ora tonu, Aotearoa!

 

(The people rise as one,

All voices shall be heard.

One land, one boundless love —

Forever shall Aotearoa live.)

The Kaitiaki Wait

 

In anticipation, the Nation waits —

For the Haka to rise like thunder, erupting from the earth.

Kia ora manuhiri, nau mai ki tō tātou whenua tapu,

Welcome — step with care on sacred ground.

Bind your words, hold your steps,

Lest you wake the bones below.

 

For here, beneath your feet, the legacy of the Whenua stands firm.

Te Āti Awa iwi — far from forgotten,

Spirit of the land, root of the past.

Its truth, twisted by time and treaty,

Steeped deep in inequity —

A partnership broken by the Crown’s sleight of hand.

 

As each generation passes,

The wairua of ancient time passes too —

To preserve the kaitiaki,

To hold fast the memory, the promise,

In chants now seldom heard,

In Waiata and Haka, the voices of the land still echo.

 

Their sound rolls across Aotearoa,

Commanding not permission —

A privilege to hear the ancestors speak,

To feel their footfall shake the floor,

To witness, once more,

The sacredness of a place once stolen.

 

Displaced iwi, sent packing —

A shame unseen, buried in the past.

Now bound in badly rusted British chains,

Post-colonial laws that still refuse to break.

The wail of Waiata — allowed,

Its mourning voice deemed safe.

 

But Haka —

Its challenge too fierce, too unrelenting,

Too loud for comfort,

Too honest for the chambers of power,

Where reality lies buried beneath layers of deceit.

Where truth is feared,

And memory locked away behind polished wood and clipped voices.

 

“We don’t go there,” they say.

Don’t speak of past transgressions.

Don’t bring bitterness to the table.

Let the silence settle in —

Let the Old Boys keep their seats.

 

But another storm brews.

 

From below, the ancestors rise,

Their pounding footsteps shake Pipitea Pā.

From foundations soaked in legacy and loss,

The Beehive trembles once more.

 

Thud. Reverberation. Wail.

 

Let the Kaitiaki speak.

Let the spirits roam unbound.

Let the land, still breathing beneath steel and concrete,

Remind you who it belongs to.

 

For upon this place —

Where ancestors walk by night,

Where tūpuna whisper through the flax,

And the stolen Pā glows beneath city light —

Still sits the House of Law,

Built on confiscated ground,

Where silence is policy,

And truth is tabled only when tamed.

 

But the old ones stir.

 

The vow of silence will not hold.

The wairua will not rest.

The Kaitiaki are not gone —

Only waiting.

 

And the Haka will rise.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)

When the Haka Sounds Again

 

When the Haka Sounds Again

His blood begins to boil — who knows quite why?

His pressure rises, anger soaring high.

He thought his “No!” was clear, both firm and loud,

But now they stand again — a defiant crowd.

Their chanting thunders, echoing on floor,

Ko te wairua o te whenua — the spirit’s core.

We cannot tame the wind nor turn the tide,

It lives within our bones — our ancient guide.

In sudden spark, their haka flames to birth,

Old pride awakened, shaking all the earth.

He should have drawn a breath, cast doubt aside,

Haere ki te au — go with the tide.

A thousand battles fought, yet never done,

He fights the cause — his war is never won.

Now his adjournment cursed, decrees reversed,

His blanket rules condemned — his judgment burst.

At night in bed, he hears the haka loud,

Sees twisted faces rising from the shroud.

He tosses, turns, sweat gathering on his brow,

It steals his sleep — the anger burns somehow.

By light of day, he dreads it might appear,

Behind the trees, in alleyways, too near.

It haunts his mind, gives him an axe to grind,

A taniwha of guilt he cannot leave behind.

A real hoo-ha — pork and pūhā stew,

The ghosts he stirred now dine and laugh anew.

Kia kaha! Kia toa! Kia manawanui!

(Be strong! Be brave! Stand fast in spirit true!)

Whakaaria mai, ngā tūpuna e,

Show yourselves, ancestors, rise and say —

Aue! Ka tū te ihi, te wehi, te wana!

(Ah! Stand the power, the awe, the energy within!)

And when he thinks the echoes fade once more,

The haka stirs — begins again — to roar.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)