Conversation with a Dead Man

Conversation with a Dead Man
I saw you only yesterday
Spring- stepped and looking good 
You saw me only yesterday 
And you never though I would 
Be greeting you this way

Well is it dark? Is it but gloom? 
That Empty Nothingness? 
So speak to me of where you are 
Is Your Sun a deep caress?
Or does Night now rule your day?

I have to know. I've got to know 
Are you looking down at me?
My grass is green not grey
besides, what colour grass could be? 
Now, will you answer me?

He paused awhile as if in thought
and then his Answer came 
What I am now, soon shall you be
One day, one month, one year, he said
It's all the same to me

We who keep The Flame alive

We who keep The Flame alive

 

Sometimes it shines

 bright like the Sun
as in one decade

not too long gone

Sometimes it smoulders,

 embers only

as Old Comrades pass on

and lonely, we are left

we Comrades true

who once marched proud

but now are few

 

We've kept The Faith

and shunned false fame

to stay the bearers

of The Flame
In this Dark Time
we keep it bright

so young Comrades

can see it's light

and stand with us

as Comrades old

to lift The Flame

and join our fold

 

To lift The Flame

and make it flower

A Nation's Hope

A Race's Power

 



The Awakening

 

Awakening by Eddy Morrison

To Them we are but children
sleeping in our Lottery Halls
Be dull be dumbed my child
and We will look after things

To Them we are mere cattle
Herded through our days
and slaughtering ourselves
at Their bidding

To Them we are a sleeping Nation
near comatose under Their Order
Do not think
Their dungeons await

Yet to Them we are Their Doom
and a people are stirring

and false dreams are ending
Awake now - and throw off Their chains



The Long Sleep Is Ending

The long sleep is ending by Eddy Morrison
The Tor is cold, neither tourist nor lunatics clod
can warm the sad sod
that covers the caverns of your rest.
The land sickens and is ashen,
and lost are the best
brave knights, all gone under foreign clays.
Our days are dark and
far too numerous.
The land is dying
your people lying in the utter apathy
that goes beyond despair,
still care.
Awaken their minds and hearts.
Come home, and make us part again of Albion
Oh, Once and Future King.

"Rule Britannia"

RULE BRITANNIA

 When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang the strain :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

The nations, not so blest as thee,
Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall ;
Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke ;
As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ;
All their attempts to hurl thee down
Will but arouse thy geii'rous flame,
And work their woe but thy renown :

Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ;
Britons never will be slaves.

James Thomson

Senlac Hill

Senlac Hill by Eddy Morrison (January 2013)

From Senlac Hill the fyrd looked down
upon those who would seize England's Crown
the Norman's ranks full serried wide
A Bastard's horde; a Bastard's pride

Upon The Hill, the shield-wall stands
As Saxon men defend their lands
'The Fighting Man' above them flies
below the Housecarls steadfast eyes

All day the shield-wall holds its own
defending English Harold's throne
All day both horse and sword surge in
Yet shield-wall stands and stands to win

But then the Bastard's ruse it out
and Saxons fall and Saxons rout
The arrow storm - that darkens sky
and pierces Crown and pierces eye

Then Senlac Hill confirms its name
as Saxon blood pours forth in vain
A shield-wall broke; a King brought down
A Bastard crowned in London Town

Today our children play and we
from Abbey grounds look down and see
The Hill, those fields where Swan-Neck cried
Where Harold fell - and England died

England

ENGLAND
(From Shakespeare's Richard II)


THIS royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise ;

This fortress, built by nature for herself,

Against infection and the hand of war ;

This happy breed of men, this little world ;

This precious stone set in the silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house,

Against the envy of less happier lands :

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,

This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,

Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,

Renowned for their deeds as far from home,

(For Christian service, and true chivalry,)

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,

Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son :

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,

Dear for her reputation through the world . . .

England, bound in with the triumphant sea,

Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

Of watery Neptune.

II

THIS England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.

Sir Walter Scott

BREATHES THERE THE MAN

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land ! '

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand ?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell ;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott.

Unity by P.W

Unity

The problem with me and the problem with you.

Is all that we say and all that we do.

When was the last time we all stood together?

Defiant of all and in spite of the weather?

We've all been around now for so many years.

We've had our triumphs but mostly shed tears.

Each time things go wrong someone gets the blame.

They become former comrades its all such a shame.

Meanwhile the enemy just points and laughs.

As we carry on making stupendous gaffs.

While we are digging our bloody great hole.

Even more of our Nation is just being stole.

Right from under our noses they take it away.

While we sit at home on computers all day.

Let's go out together and breath the fresh air.

Let the people know that we really do care.

To those we've offended, lets say sorry now.

Because we want unity, lets show them how.

So get off your high horse and start mucking in.

Not being the leader is not such a sin.

But helping to keep us divided is so.

Try helping your comrades, just give it a go.

Forget about leaders, all they do is shout.

Remember the reason why you started out.

It was surely because you desired salvation.

For Fourteen Words and for Race & Nation.

PW.

The Promise Of Empire

The Promise of Empire by Bill Baillie

In the space of a lifetime

We have traded our place

From the centre of Empire

To the edges of space

Where once we ruled

We are now ruled over

From the mountains of Mourne

To the White Cliffs of Dover

We have lost our religion

Our bluster and pride

And the lion that once roared

Has curled up and died

But the blood that was squandered

In Flanders and France

Still flows in our veins

And given the chance

The promise of Empire

The love and the pride

Will shine in the darkness

With God on our side.

Boadicea: An Ode by William Cowper

                                                                       William Cowper

BOADICEA: AN ODE [Written 1780. Published 1782.] WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Ev'ry burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. "Rome shall perish—write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground— Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize— Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway, Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending, as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heav'n awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd, Shame and ruin wait for you. 8 16 24 32 40

A book that semms to be of interest....Patriotism and Poetry

Cambridge University Press, 17 Nov 2005 - 328 pages

The poetry of the mid- and late-eighteenth century has long been regarded as essentially private and apolitical. Dustin Griffin argues in this study that the poets of the period were actually addressing the great issues of national life--rebellion at home, imperial wars abroad, an expanding commercial empire, and an emerging new British national identity. He also reveals that poets such as Thomas Gray, Christopher Smart, Oliver Goldsmith, and William Cowper were engaged in the century-long debate about the nature of true patriotism.

Why do I wear a poppy?

Why do I wear a poppy? I’ll tell you if I may,
Because I believe remembrance is... not only for one day.
I wear it for the fallen, and for those falling still
For those who come back broken in body or in will.
For the parents, spouses, siblings where bereavement takes its toll.
Whose pain will never leave them, It eats into their soul
For the wino on the corner, Of his old...life nothing’s left.

Now he wishes when in battle he had died a hero’s death.

For the lad who loved a kick-about in the park with all his mates,
But now his legs are held together with pins and metal plates
For the selfless men and women whose final journey home
Is in a Union flag-draped coffin on comrades’ shoulders borne.
For all those marching proudly In Remembrance Day parades
My poppy’s worn in gratitude for the sacrifice they made.
(Writer unnown - contemporary poem 2012)

The Coming Storm....2006 by Eddy Morrison

The Coming Storm
There is a Darkness
in the skies over England
Rolling Black stormclouds
gather and thunder
the lightning bolts
are building
stronger each day!

Soon, and now, they will
strike our Nation
bringing fire and unholy
Black brimstone
to cover our land

Gone our meadows green
Gone our cities of fire
all consumed in a mad, mindless
Savage rage
that will sweep all
before it

Where England's beauty stood
will stand the Beasts of
the New Planned Apocalypse

And what shall we do?
And how shall we fight?
Will our hearts be strong?
Will our Will be true?

And will we rise as men
and face the Coming Storm?
or will we hide -
cover ourselves
in the False Cloak
of Blessed Respectability

and seek - hopelessly
False Shelter from
The Coming Storm?

William Blake - Jerusalem

Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time.

Walk upon Englands mountains green:

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;

Bring me my Arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In Englands green & pleasant Land

The Beginnings - Kipling

The Beginnings
It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.

Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud, When the English began to hate.

It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.

The Anvil - Rudyard Kipling

The Anvil

Norman Conquest, 1066

ENGLAND'S on the anvil--hear the hammers ring--
      Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!
Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King--
      England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line!
   
England's on the anvil!  Heavy are the blows!
      (But the work will be a marvel when it's done.)
Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes.
      England's being   hammered  hammered, hammered into one!

There shall be one people--it shall serve one Lord--
       (Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape!)
It shall have one  speech  and  law,  soul  and  strength  and  sword.
      England's  being  hammered,  hammered,  hammered  into
         shape!

The Law of the Jungle - Kipling

Rudyard Kipling

(Born December 30, 1865, Died January 18, 1936)

Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -- For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

Poems For Our Nation

The supporters of Nationalist Sentinel have launched this Blog to gave a permanent place for as much poetry both old and new which celebrates our British Race and Nation. Here you will find poems by modern day Nationalist poets and patriotic poems passed down through the last few hundred years - Kipling, Brooke,Yeats, D E Lawrence,Thomas Hardy, Tolkein and others to name some very prominent ones.
We are also encouraging YOU to put pen to paper - or in this case, keyboard to email and send in YOUR poem which must in some way cover some aspect of racial-nationalism or British patriotism.
We shall also be featuring from time to time, tips and hints and writing better poetry......

...so on with the motley....