L Leslie Coulson

Leslie Coulson

8 şiir · 1889 — 1916 · England

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Leslie Coulson was an English First World War poet and journalist who tragically lost his life on the battlefields of the Western Front. He was born on the 19th July 1889 in the Kilburn district of London, the son of a Sunday Chronicle journalist. After a boarding school education in Norfolk he followed his father into newspapers, obtaining a post as a junior reporter on the Evening News. But then, in the August of 1914, came the war and Coulson went to the Army recruiting office immediately, keen to “do his bit”. He enlisted as a private soldier in the infantry regiment of the Royal Fusiliers. After a few short months, and poignantly on Christmas Eve, he boarded a troop ship bound for Malta. He did not know, then, that he would never see the shores of England again. After Malta he also saw service in Egypt, and then Gallipoli. After the debacle of that peninsular campaign, where allied forces were forced to evacuate the area after heavy losses, came the call to the Western Front. His final, fatal posting, by now holding the rank of sergeant, would be to the Somme battlefield in 1916. Coulson continued to write while serving and, understandably, many of his poems revealed the anger, and often despair, felt by most of those fighting in an increasingly desperate conflict. It was the lot of the infantry soldier to see death and desolation almost every day and one of his most famous poems was inspired by these ghastly sights. Who Made the Law is a stark observation made by a man forced to question by whose authority so many should be condemned to die such a horrible death. His words are a stinging accusation aimed at the politicians and generals whose decisions brought about, and then perpetuated, the war when the sensible thing would have been to call a negotiated truce. Within this poem Coulson painfully paints a stark picture of the sheer mundanity of the locations where these events took place. In the hedgerows, along quiet village lanes, and in residents’ private gardens – all of which makes what happened seem even more shocking. The poem is reproduced below: Ironically he was almost spared the trials of front line service as he was taken ill with mumps. It was a severe enough bout to have him hospitalised and it was from his recuperation bed that he wrote the first of his war poems, a piece not surprisingly called A Soldier in Hospital. But, he recovered and had a second chance of survival when he was wounded in Gallipoli. Alas, he recovered from that too and found himself promoted and sent to France. It was not long before he met his end. Sergeant Leslie Coulson was killed on the 8th of October 1916 at the age of 27. He had been leading his men against a fortified German trench when he was struck in the chest. Although he was repatriated from the battlefield he died of his wounds, in hospital, the next day. His body was buried in the Commonwealth War Graves cemetery established close by, in the town of Méaulte. His father saw to it that Leslie’s poems should not be forgotten and arranged for From an Outpost and Other Poems to be published in 1917. This collection sold ten thousand copies in its first year.

Leslie Coulson şiirleri

Arama yardımı

Our little hour,—how swift it flies When poppies flare and lilies smile; How soon the fleeting minute dies, Leaving us but a little while…

I've tramped South England up and down Down Dorset way, down Devon way, Through every little ancient town Down Dorset way, down Devon way.…

İngilizce

In other days I sang of simple things, Of summer dawn, and summer noon and night, The dewy grass, the dew wet fairy rings, The larks long golden flight.…

İngilizce

So be it, God, I take what Thou dost give, And gladly give what Thou dost take away. For me Thy choice is barren days and grey. Unquestioning Thy ordered days I live,…

The old men in the olden days, Who thought and worked in simple ways, Believed in God and sought His praise.…

İngilizce

Watch the white dawn gleam, To the thunder of hidden guns. I hear the hot shells scream Through skies as sweet as a dream…

İngilizce

What war has left its wake of whitened bone, Soft stems of summer grass shall wave again, And all the blood that war has ever strewn Is but a passing stain.

Who made the Law that men should die in shadows ? Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes ? Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards ? Who spread the hills…

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