Dulce et Decorum Est

[Fuse]

I'm sitting here at work, reading all of the rather controversial posts that have sprung up recently and for some reason this poem popped into my head. It was probably the only thing the entire year that the entire class seemed to respect. I'm sure most of you have read it before, and I realize it's from the wrong war. But I think it's good to help center focus back on the fact that war isn't fun for anyone involved. Without further ado I present "Dulce et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen (not sure the copyright deal but I copied it from http://members.aol.com/Chicolynn/poems.html#Dulce)

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped 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 themisty 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 wagan 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.

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Upon the fields of friendly strife, are sown the seeds of Victory.

---Douglas McArthur

[Hamstersss]

Wow.

[dumbo]

Sadly he was killed before the war ended as well if I recall correctly.

I was taught this poem in high school by my excellent English Lit teacher who had an eye for quality. Still rings true today.

_dumbo

[Fuse]

Good point dumbo, he was killed in 1918, apparently mere days before the Armistice went into effect. I accidently ommited in my earlier post that I too was introduced to this by a very influencial and intelligent high school English teacher. Also, Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori translates into "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country."

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Upon the fields of friendly strife, are sown the seeds of Victory.

---Douglas McArthur

[Formerly Babra]

Check out Robert Graves and John McRae as well. With Owen they make a magnificent triumvirate of war poets.

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Sounds like 100% weapons-grade bolonium to me.

[Chupacabra]

Sigfried Sassoon was another WW1 poet of some note.

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Soy super bien, soy super super bien, soy bien bien super bien bien bien super super.

[dumbo]

Is Robert Graves the guy who wrote "Goodbye to all that" and "I Claudius" as well? If so he had a pretty incredible life.

_dumbo

[Holdit]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Chupacabra:

Sigfried Sassoon was another WW1 poet of some note.

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Here's one of his:

The General

'Good-morning, good-morning!' the General said

When we met him last week on our way to the line.

Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,

And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.

'He's a cheery old card,' grunted Harry to Jack

As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

[Marnix]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Chupacabra:

Sigfried Sassoon was another WW1 poet of some note.

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,

Or wounded in a mentionable place.

You worship decorations; you believe

That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.

You make us shells. You listen with delight,

By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.

You crown our distant ardours while we fight,

And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.

You can't believe that British troops `retire'

When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,

Trampling the terrible corpses-blind with blood.

O German mother dreaming by the fire,

While you are knitting socks to send your son

His face is trodden deeper in the mud.

-- Siegfried Sassoon, "The Glory of Women"

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Dan Simmons wrote a very impressive story about the (fictional) trench poet James Edwin Rooke. It's called "The Great Lover" and it's in his book "Lovedeath", pages 230-354. I highly recommend it.

Marnix.