Through the long ward the gramophone
Grinds out its nasal melodies:
“Where did you get that girl?” it shrills.
The patients listen at their ease,
Through clouds of strong tobacco smoke:
The gramophone can always please.
The Welsh boy has it by his bed,
(He’s lame – one leg blown away –
He’ll lie propped up with pillows there,
And wind the handle half the day.
His neighbour, with the shattered arm,
Picks out the records he must play.
Jock with his crutches beats the time;
The gunner, with his head close-bound,
Listen with puzzled, patient smile:
(Shell shocked-he cannot hear a sound).
The others join in from their beds,
And send the chorus rolling round.
Somehow for me these common tunes
Can never sound the same again:
They’ve magic now to thrill my heart
And bring before me, clear and plain,
Man that is master of his flesh,
And has the laugh of death and pain.
(Eva Dobell)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Pain Poems, Smiling Poems, Laughter Poems, Listening Poems, Medicine & Medical PoemsBased on Keywords: jock, grinds, gunner, welsh, crutches, nasal, gramophone, close-bound