Guillaume Apollinaire
Exercise
Four bombardiers were on their way
To a small village in the rear
Layers of dust had turned them grey
They’d joined up earlier that year
They quietly talked of other years
And gazed at the vast plain ahead
A shell coughed near the bombardiers
Not one so much as turned his head
They only spoke of yesterday
Tomorrow seemed a waste of breath
They held to their ascetic way
This constant discipline of death
Translated by Robert Chandler
Page(s) 148
magazine list
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- ARTEMISpoetry
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- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Erbacce
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- Fire
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- French Literary Review, The
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
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- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
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- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
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- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
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- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
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- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
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- Quarto
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- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The