Imagery and Emotions in the Trenches

Eighth graders recently learned about World War I, focusing on warfare methods. They learned about the trenches, which were dirty, disease-ridden, and demoralizing. To learn about and process the despair of the trenches, students tapped in to cross-curricular skills to produce a diorama and poem.

Using cardboard, glue, paint, miniatures, clay, and more, students created dioramas to artistically represent the environment of the trenches. Then, they wrote poems from the perspective of an American soldier, using sensory language and imagery. All of the dioramas and poems were fantastic! Below are two examples.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over The Hill
Alex Tomeldan 

A World War I Poem By: Henry Chenoweth
Alone in a trench stood one lone soldier
His eyes, once filled with warmth, began to grow colder
He knelt down on his knees feeling the cold dry land
The soil where much blood has spilled and now stains his hand

As he stood in despair, he saw a land filled with ire and hate
Soldiers, once considered brothers, now deciding each other’s fate
Blood of the wounded gave off an ominous scent of death
While others lay gasping for their last breath

Burning trees filled the air with an ashy smell
The scent of gas causing many to feel unwell
A land of smoke filled the air with shades of gray
What used to be a forest was now on fire burning away

The taste of ash on bread and jam
A taste of dirt mixed with cold potatoes and yam
Ignoring the flow of blood around their teeth and gums
They make use of the stash of rations in very small sums

The sounds of screaming soldiers filling the air
The firing of gunshots echoing everywhere 
Thunderous explosions forming craters all around
Loud whistles of artillery shells penetrating the ground

Soldiers desperate to run and hide, but bravely stayed to fight
Oh how to comprehend such an overwhelming sight
Bodies of soldiers becoming cold and still
What I had to witnessed that morning walking over the hill

 

Despair in the Trenches
Lucia Peterson
The corpses of my best friends lie in front of me,
Despair is all I can see. 
Bright red poppies bloom in the middle of the field,
The slightest bit of hope finally revealed.

The sound of loud bangs echo,
While the wind, stirred with screams, continues to blow.
My ears ring from the overwhelming noises,
Rats scurry from the ground, their squeaks like voices.

My swelling feet slip through the wet mud,
My aching wounds gushing out more blood.
As I pull the trigger, my hands shaking,
My life gets even more frustrating.

The residing smell of gunpowder and smoke,
It poisons my nose and makes me choke,
The trenches reek of garbage and decay,
I’ve gotten used to it, the smell remaining night and day.

The bitter taste of blood on my tongue,
Why must I live like this while I’m still young?
The flavour lingers for a while,
I’m tired of living in this muddy isle.