dulce et decorum est ~ wilfred owen

:patriot:

"Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas shells dropping softly behind.



Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.



In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.



If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori."

experience hell.

k&r

Hitler, for instance.

so if nothing else...if just for this ONE day we can all come together in silent, peaceful respect for those who gave without question.

welcome to du

today i wish for you and, for us all peace.

:hug:

peace

:hug:

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

:cry:

eagle's red and gold with the soldier's blood and the yellow mustard-gas.

The "bright splendid shroud", the "virtue of slaughter"~~~Propaganda colliding with Truth.

Bush worships the god whose kingdom is a thousand corpses.

have not questioned
the reason why
they alone
did do or die.

thank you and peace.

:patriot:

have never talked about it. Won't discuss it. Their look explains it all...

peace.

:hug:

literature. All Quiet On The Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque is a classic. Also poetry by Sgfried Sassoon is excellent. From a feminist's view I suggest Vera Brittain and the novel Testament of Youth.

putting them at the top of my list.

peace.

:hug:

Here are a few tragic and satirical poems by Sassoon, which sadly have not lost their relevance:


Base Details.

If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
and speed young heroes up the line to death.

You'd see my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honor, "Poor young chap."
I'd say -- "I used to know his father well;
Yes, we lost heavily in this last scrap."
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I'd toddle safely home and die -- in bed.



Lamentations

I found him in the guard-room at the Base.
From the blind darkness I had heard his crying
And blundered in. With puzzled, patient face
A sergeant watched him; it was no good trying
To stop it; for he howled and beat his chest.
And, all because his brother had gone west,
Raved at the bleeding war; his rampant grief
Moaned, shouted, sobbed, and choked, while he was kneeling
Half-naked on the floor. In my belief
Such men have lost all patriotic feeling.



Memorial Tablet
(November 1918)
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby's scheme). I died in hell -
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duck-boards; so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.

At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare;
For, though low down upon the list, I'm there;
"In proud and glorious memory" ... that's my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he's never guessed.
Once I came home on leave: and then went west ...
What greater glory could a man desire?

peace.

:patriot: