The poetry of World War I was an unusual literary and cultural phenomenon that emerged as a genre with self-awareness and autonomy. It was the famous War Poets, who were indeed connected to each other in one way or another.

The war has always been a theme of poetic creation, but the poetry of World War I stands out for the unprecedented volume of poems written during that period. There were over 2000 war poets from England and Ireland alone. The poetry of World War I is not limited to trench poetry, although that remains its most significant part.

The poetry of World War I includes soldiers and non-soldiers, men and women, romantics and modernists. It represents a wide spectrum through which each expressed their experiences. Today, no serious anthologist can ignore the poetry of those who were not found in the trenches, of citizens or women. Poetry played a decisive role in shaping the collective memory of World War I.

One of the unique features of World War I poetry is its high emotional intensity. It is regarded as almost an accurate transcription of the trench experience, a poetry that screams, cries, trembles, aches, but also mocks. It is one of those moments where poetic form produces a testimony of historical trauma.

THE CHERRIES
The cherry trees bend, the leaves fall and shrivel
over the old road, which now, death erases.
They cast a bridal, blossom-strewn carpet - the petals spread
on this May morning, but a wedding is not to happen.
Edward Thomas

AN IRISH PILOT FORESEES HIS DEATH
I know I am moving towards the Fateful,
into the clouds, high in the sky;
I do not hate those I fight,
nor do I love those I protect;
Kiltartan Cross is my land,
the poor inhabitants are my brothers;
no victory will bring a celebration for them,
no defeat, new harm to their lives.
I do not fight out of duty or law
nor for political men or angry crowds;
but an inner necessity drives me to the road
to perish among the clouds, which is joy for me.
I have weighed it all, I have thought it all well:
Lost years come to fall into the void
and all that has passed was lost too
against this life, in this slaughter.
William Butler Yeats

BASIC DETAILS
If I were wild and raw and had eaten my bread,
I would be with the great Generals there at the Base;
to run the poor heroes towards death's first
line.
I would have a swollen face and nerves in a calm posture;
I would eat and drink in fine first-class hotels
reading the list of deceased soldiers... "Poor child,
unfortunate" I would say, "I knew his father;
yes, indeed, we had heavy losses in the last battle" ...
And when the war would end and the young would be dead,
I would crawl home safe, to die too -
in bed.
Siegfried Sassoon