from the editor's desk
‘Soldier, Soldier’ by Gwen Harwood, writing as Timothy Kline
Since 1956, Westerly has been publishing lively fiction and poetry as well as intelligent articles. With the Magazine turning seventy this year, we want to celebrate that legacy by sharing works from across the long timeline of Westerly’s history with our readers. Our first post in this occasional series was a sequence of poems translated by Randolph Stow, and we’re excited to dive into our vast archive again with a work from Westerly 13.2: Young Writers Issue. This issue was published in 1968. Shared below is ‘Soldier, Soldier’, a poem written by one of Australia’s finest poets, Gwen Harwood, writing as one of her many alter egos, Timothy Kline, ‘a young Tasmanian clerk who protested against social injustice and the Vietnam War’ (Australian Dictionary of Biography).
Gwen Harwood AO (1920–1995) was a poet and librettist. She published over 420 works, including 386 poems and thirteen librettos. The original biography of Kline, as published in Westerly 13.2, is as follows: ‘Timothy Kline—21—born Tasmania and lives there. Clerk, interested in boat building and canoeing. Working on a novel. Poems broadcast’.
A longer, typically playful, biography can be found in Australian Poetry Now, edited by Thomas Shapcott:
Timothy Kline. Born Hobart 1946, attended State schools, works as a clerk. Hobbies, boat-building, sail-making, bush-walking, cake-baking, gliding and soaring, drinking and whoring, cursing and praying, flogging and beating, mutton-bird eating, waving the flag and wearing drag, converting agnostics, writing acrostics, catching and chucking, kissing and collecting pictures of the Royal Family. (qtd. in Harwood, Collected Poems 1943–1995 588)
Soldier, Soldier
Soldier, soldier, will you marry me
With your rifle in your hand?
No, my dear, I must fight the enemy
Far off in a foreign land.
Soldier, soldier, will you sail away
With countless thousands more?
No, some will go and many more will stay
For our country’s not at war.
Soldier, soldier, were you picked to be
With the bravest men of all?
No, my dear, you must simply wait and see
If your number’s on the ball.
Soldier, soldier, do they take their pick
From those who want to kill?
No, my dear, if the killing makes you sick
You must fight against your will.
Soldier, soldier, will you recognize
Your foe, and make him yield?
No, my dear, he’ll be wearing the disguise
Of a peasant in his field.
Soldier, soldier, will you take the blame
For those who mean no harm?
Friend and foe will look pretty much the same
When we burn them with napalm.
Soldier, soldier, will I kneel and pray
That the war may not be long?
No, my dear, it’s for men themselves to say
That men shall do no wrong.
Soldier, soldier, will you love me now
And not wait for your return?
No, my dear, no child of mine shall grow
While wives and children burn.
Soldier, soldier, will you have me weep
While youth and love go by?
Each night in anguish while you sleep
Unchilded women cry.
Soldier, soldier, must I mourn the dead
Who will suffer at your hand?
Weep, my dear, on their cold and bloody bed
It is I who lie unmanned.
Did you know you can read past issues of Westerly Magazine online for free? Read Westerly 13.2: Young Writers Issue in its entirety here.
