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A Camp In The Prussian Forest

Rating: 2.9

I walk beside the prisoners to the road.
Load on puffed load,
Their corpses, stacked like sodden wood,
Lie barred or galled with blood

By the charred warehouse. No one comes to-day
In the old way
To knock the fillings from their teeth;
The dark, coned, common wreath

Is plaited for their grave - a kind of grief.
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Michael Cayley 02 July 2011

It's difficult to write directly about the horrors of the concentration camps of the Nazi holocaust. The poem is powerful, but perhaps the poet is a little too close to events to create perfect poetry, and a few lines are poetically flat and too factual.

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