Fire: A Sestina For Survivors

He waits in silence for his heart to break

He waits in silence for his heart to break

I know that this is the day that America votes for its new president and that much of the world holds its breath as they await the result. I know too that for many of my American friends this particular campaign, and the choice which has been set before them has occasioned very deep distress, and I pray for them and their fellow Americans. But in the longer and deeper rhythm of things these first days of November are also, on both sides of the Atlantic, a season of Remembrance, and so as we approach Remembrance day and Remembrance Sunday I thought I would repost this sestina called ‘Fire’ which is about the trauma, the post traumatic stress, which so many soldiers have brought back with them from the theatre of war and have to deal with in civilian life.

There was a former soldier, now a homeless man, who used to come sometimes into the back of our church in Cambridge. Dressed in camouflage and carrying an imaginary rifle he would squat behind the pews, take aim at the pulpit, or edge his way round the side of the church, clearly frightened and looking for cover. We knew he was reliving things we could scarcely imagine and we did our best to calm him and make him feel welcome (as well as dealing with the alarm he sometimes caused to members of the congregation.) It was meeting with him, and other former soldiers like him, that led me to write this Sestina, which is part of a sequence called ‘Six Glimpses’ in my book The Singing Bowl.

As a form, the Sestina insists that the poet return again and again, but in a different order, to the same six words with which the first six lines of the poem end. Of its very nature this form explores, repetition, return, trappedness, circularity, the very things with which so many soldiers with PTSD and their families are having to deal, so it seemed the right form to try and express a little of what I could see. I post this now so that we might remember, pray for and find ways of helping those who have been through the trauma of battle and cannot find their way back into ‘normality’ yet. I hope and pray that as awareness grows there might be more in the way of help and counselling provided both by the Military and the NHS, and perhaps more understanding from the general public.

As always you can hear me read the poem by clicking on either the title or the ‘play’ button.



He cannot stop these memories of fire

Crackling and flashing in his head.

Not just in fevered dreams; the fires break

Into the light of day. He burns with shame,

But still he screams and shakes, because the dead,

Are burning too and screaming out his name.


They told him his condition had a name,

But words can’t quench the memory of fire,

Nor can they ever resurrect the dead.

They told him it was ‘all inside his head’,

That post-traumatic stress need cause no shame.

The army gave him time for a short break.


But that’s what he’s afraid of. He will break

And break forever; lose his life and name,

Shake like a child who’s sickening with shame,

He who had been ‘courageous under fire’

Who always stemmed the panic, kept his head.

And now all night he wishes he were dead


And cannot die. Instead he sees the dead

In all their last contortions. Bodies break

Under his wheels, a child’s severed head

Amidst the rubble seems to call his name

Over the clattering of rifle fire,

Stuttering guns that shake with him in shame.


He’s left his family. ‘Oh its a shame’,

The neighbours said, ‘That marriage was long dead-

-You cant live with a man whose shouting ‘Fire!’

All night like that.- His kids needed a break

And in the end she had to change her Name.’

‘They’ll never fix what’s wrong inside his Head.’


‘Some people seem to cope and get ahead,

The army makes them better men, a shame

He couldn’t cope.’ Now he has lost his name

And his address. He only knows the dead.

He sleeps on benches but they come and break

His sleep. They keep him under constant fire.


And come November, when they name the dead,

He waits in silence for his heart to break

And every poppy burns with hopeless fire.


Filed under literature, Poems, politics

5 responses to “Fire: A Sestina For Survivors

  1. Art

    Truth comes to us a little rough is still what happened and has to be lived down eh!?art

    Sent from my iPad


  2. Melanie Bromley

    Dear Malcolm,This Sestina is , for me,:the most beautifully expressed poem.Thank you for sharing your gift with us .How was your jam session last night? And Happy Birthday for Saturday.My birthday is the day after.Regards, Melanie

    Sent from Yahoo Mail on Android

  3. V Wright

    Dear Malcolm,

    You have been sending me your beautiful poems for some time now, but this one has motivated me to write and express my thanks. I used it at a Remembrance service I led yesterday and the congregation were totally attentive and moved. After the service, so many people came up to me and thanked me and I know that it was in large measure due to that poem. It brought home starkly, the hidden cost of war and the suffering of those with PTSD; I think we could all identify with some of the sentiments expressed in the poem and felt remorse for our lack of empathy. I pray that God will use this, and all your poetry, in the ongoing work of bringing the peace we all long for.

    Thank you and bless you.

    Valerie Wright

    • malcolmguite

      Dear Valerie
      Thank you very much for this. I’m so glad you were able to use the poem in the service and that it reached through to people in the way you describe-that’s very much what these poems are for

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