Many people associate the First World War with poetry, and Lochnagar Crater Today is no exception. In this, our first edition, we publish a poem called Looking Back, written by Tait Jones, from Surbiton High School. She was 14 when she entered it in the Lochnagar Prize competition. She read it at the centenary service on July 1st, 2016, and it was repeated in French by Friend Julie Thomson.
Tait Jones, with her father Christopher Wilkinson and Julie Thomson, Lochnagar Crater, July 1st, 2016. Picture by David Thomson.
The ‘Impressions of Lochnagar Crater’ Prize is an annual competition for people aged between ten and 17. It’s designed to encourage interest in this unique Great War memorial. Entries can be in any medium, including Art, Prose, Poetry, Photography or Music. The prize of £200 is divided equally between winners of the two age groups, ten to 13 years and 14 to 17 years.
Another entry from last year came from Vita Matuseva, from Waid Academy at Anstruther in Fife, Scotland. She was 15 when she painted this picture.
For more details on the Award and how to enter, please see: www.lochnagarcrater.org and click on the ‘For Schools’ link.
The £200 Prize is sponsored by Mike and Frances Speakman in memory of their daughter Angela.
LOOKING BACK
By Tait Jones
I’m looking back,
You’re long forgotten,
Rotting alone, in a cold black hole,
Your memories are lost,
Embers dead, black as coal,
Not one mind has your name crossed,
To them you are an empty soul. It’s sad, really,
That all the things you did for them, so they could keep their grace,
That not one of them has gazed upon your smile,
Heard your laugh, or seen the fear on your face,
As you stood up above that crumbling trench thinking was all this worthwhile? Not one of them saw those men falling,
In pieces, like rain,
Or listened to the wailing, gagging and calling,
As men collapsed in vain, Not one of them saw your pain,
Not one of them witnessed with their eyes,
Men blown to slithers and covered in flies,
Those purple-red sights that stretched on for miles,
Of dead men,
And the haunted gaps that were twisted smiles. In the back of their minds, you’ll find your fight,
The art of forgetting is a strange delight,
And where you lay in your dimming light,
It is easiest to banish the mournful sight, So not one of them remembers,
Not one of them can see,
That what ended in November,
Is what has set them free, But I will remember,
And I will see,
For what you ended in November,
I say thank you, for setting me free…
