Lost – Ibrahim Noor

Ibrahim Noor Langley Academy

Ibrahim Noor
The Langley Academy

When getting a tour of the “dear harry” exhibition, I saw the futility in the situation Henry Moseley had been put into, and so my thought of him and what his attitude toward it might have alluded to. This led to my recollection of Owen’s Futility – this is the voice I tried to reflect within the poem. A huge influence on the poems emotive aspect was Moseley’s mother who was a chess champion and in the exhibition there was on display two diaries, which contained therein chess matches and her pride in Henry.


I wandered lonely through desert sands,
With men marching shoulder to soldier,
As scorching sand coursed through our veins.
The sun exhaled its blistering breath,
And the searing, molten air was thick.
Friends and enemies, both
Trapped within this hell.
March, march, march.
What else could we do?

We were pawns in a game,
The game of chess my mother played.
Except, in this, there were no horses,
Or bishops, or kings or queens;
There existed the sun and the heat
And thirst alone.
March, march, march.
What else was there to do?

Has it been years or hours?
I know not where I am, nor
Whether I will live or die.
My mother’s hand falls,
Slowly, like a clock hand.
Hour by hour.
Minute by minute.
March, march and die.
It was what we were supposed to do.

© Ibrahim Noor, October 2015

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