Subject: Lyr Add: DULCE ET DECORUM EST (Wilfred Owen) From: AliUK Date: 06 Oct 01 - 09:09 PM In these times I just thought that I would post this poem by the worlds greatest dead poet. It is a poem of the first world war that has haunted me ever since I first heard it read by my English lit teacher in high school. Wilfred Owen was by far the greatest war poet that ever existed and his poems are as much anti as anything else. Apart from the fact that he lived the horror of the trenches, his poetry is resonant and beautiful in it's starkness. Here goes apologies if it doesn't come out right but I'm sure you'll get the picture: DULCE ET DECORUM EST 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 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. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: catspaw49 Date: 06 Oct 01 - 09:15 PM The comments I was prepared to make upon reading the thread title seem to be choked off by the lump in my throat................well posted Alistair, well posted. Spaw |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Amergin Date: 06 Oct 01 - 09:21 PM I have always loved this poem....the images it always evoked in my head...horrifying...didn't he die near the end of the war?
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Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: AliUK Date: 06 Oct 01 - 09:28 PM yup, from effects of the gas that he had been bombarded by. And thanks spaw, your praise is humbly accepted. I was recently rereading Owen's poems and this one as always stuck out like a sore thumb(if you can excuse the expression). |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: katlaughing Date: 06 Oct 01 - 11:37 PM Thank you, AliUK. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Gypsy Date: 06 Oct 01 - 11:49 PM Oh, my Lord......and i thought that i was couth enough to have read most of the important poetry. Thank you for posting........ |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Liz the Squeak Date: 07 Oct 01 - 03:44 AM If you think Wilfred Owen was the most important war poet, you've missed a whole chunk of them out. Sigfreid Sassoon wrote one or two complete and utter stunners. My favourite will always be 'In Flanders Fields' by Canadian John MaCrae. It's the one that launched the poppy as the rememberance flower, from the first and last verses: "In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row." and "If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields." LTS |
Subject: Lyr Add: IN FLANDERS FIELDS (John McCrae) From: Tone d' F Date: 07 Oct 01 - 04:09 AM My father often quoted poetry In Flanders Field was one of his favourites IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Take up our quarrel with the foe: |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Mark Cohen Date: 07 Oct 01 - 05:16 AM Ali, I almost passed this thread by because of the title, but I'm glad I didn't. I read this poem years ago, and thank you for refreshing my memory. It has the same effect as Dalton Trumbo's book "Johnny Got His Gun", but distilled to a heartache. Aloha, Mark |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Liz the Squeak Date: 07 Oct 01 - 06:42 AM Thanks Tone, it still raises a shiver and a lump. LTS |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: GUEST Date: 07 Oct 01 - 07:55 AM Owen died from a burst of German machine gun fire while leading his men across the Cambre canal, 4th November 1918. The church bells were ringing to celebrate the end of the war on 11th Nov. in Oswestry, Shropshire, when the front door bell rang at his parents home, they opened the door to receive the telegram informing them of their son's death. IMO dulce et decorum est was "the" poem of that war, but that is not to denigrate the works of Brooke, Sassoon, or Graves, it's just my opinion.
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Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: AliUK Date: 07 Oct 01 - 10:23 AM Thanks GUEST for correcting my misassumption. Though my admiration of Owen is purely personal, I have read the other poets that have been mentioned and MacCrae is also a favourite of mine. Sassoon wrote some wonderfully florid poetry, and his line "...this is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England."is one of the most quoted lines ever. Unfortunately his "jingoism"got in the way of his poetry, and even he acknowledged Owen as a contemporary influence. I shall probably be corrected on this, but I don't think Sassoon ever served in battle, as Owen did, it is the starkness and reality of Owen's poetry that always attracted me to it. I'm fairly sure that the story about how Owen's parents received news of their son's death is apocryphal...but I don't care because it gives the proper cachet to one of the twentieth centuries most important english-speaking poets. |
Subject: Lyr Add: ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH (Wilfred Owen) From: Keith A of Hertford Date: 07 Oct 01 - 10:36 AM ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH (Wilfred Owen) What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds, And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Keith A of Hertford Date: 07 Oct 01 - 10:41 AM Sassoon seved and was decorated (MC ?) for bravery. He later threw away his medal. His Memoirs of an Infantry Officer compare with Graves' Goodbye To All That. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 10:46 AM Ali, Seigfried Sasson was more in the 'Wilfred Owen' vein... Youre thinking of Rupert Brooke, with the 'The Soldier', which is where the line "some corner of a foreign field that is forever England" comes from. If I remember correctly, the 'jingo-ism' of Brooke's poetry seemed to go when his son was killed in action, part-way through the War. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 10:50 AM Ooops..missed this bit.. I suppose I ought to look it up, but the fact (well, if I'm RIGHT in what I said) that Brooke lost his Son would certainly suggest that he didnt serve in the Military himself... |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Gareth Date: 07 Oct 01 - 11:04 AM Sorry Paul - Brooke died of disease (Typhus ?) caught at Galipolli. Worth reading Sassoon's, Memoirs of a Fox Hunting Man & Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, as well as Graves' Goodby to all That. It was Kipling who's outlook was changed when his son was killed. CLICK FOR THE COMPLETE KIPLING Sasson site, with links to Wilfred Owen and Ruprt Brooke Gareth
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Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Keith A of Hertford Date: 07 Oct 01 - 11:05 AM You must be thinking of Kippling, who lost his only son. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 11:15 AM Oooopps! YES! Now you say it, of course thats right...Kiplings stuff seemed to significantly change, as I recall, after the loss of his son (that being the 'change' I was wrongly attributing to Brooke, of course) even though Kiplings WW1 stuff was significantly different to the 'Barrack-Room ballads' & other stuff about the 'Colonial Era', in my opinion anyhow. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Clinton Hammond Date: 07 Oct 01 - 11:33 AM Not bad... but I'll stick to Seamus Heanny, Milton Acorn, and Leonard Cohen for my poetry... ;-) |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: AliUK Date: 07 Oct 01 - 12:12 PM yup Brooke...damn I need to pay more attention to the poets and maybe less to the poetry :o). Though I think that jingoism was a sign of the times in England at the time, what with it being the fag end of the empire days. I confess to having a weakness for Kiplings books and poetry, and I just love Buchan, and you can't get much more jingoistic than the Mr. Standfast. Very much in the vein O E.R. Burroughs though more english. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Keith A of Hertford Date: 07 Oct 01 - 02:35 PM Some of the songs written about the Events could be described as jingoistic. Doesn't it just show a people united against a cruel aggressor? Keith. |
Subject: Lyr Add: TOMMY (Rudyard Kipling) From: Gareth Date: 07 Oct 01 - 02:48 PM Possibly Keith, but Kipling's earlier works were very much devoted to the common man - And very much in the general mood of the times. Try this one TOMMY I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind", But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees! Gareth |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Willa Date: 07 Oct 01 - 03:12 PM Brooke died of blood poisonong on the way to the Dardanelles, but had earlier been involved in military action. |
Subject: Lyr Add: A DOG WAS CRYING TONIGHT IN WICKLOW ALSO From: Willa Date: 07 Oct 01 - 03:42 PM Clinton This from Seamus Heaney A DOG WAS CRYING TONIGHT IN WICKLOW ALSO (in memory of Donatus Nwoga) When human beings found out about death They sent the dog to Chukwu with a message: They wanted to be let back into the house of life. They didn't want to end up lost for ever Like burnt wood disappearing into smoke Or ashes that got blown away into nothing. Instead they saw their souls in a flock at twilight Cawing and heading back for the same old roosts And the same bright airs and wing-stretchings each morning. Death would be like a night spent in the wood: At first light they'd be back in the house of life. (The dog was meant to tell all this to Chukwu). But death and human beings took second place When he trotted off the path and started barking At another dog in broad daylight just barking Back at him from the far bank of a river. And that is how the toad reached Chukwu first, The toad who'd overheard in the beginning What the dog was meant to tell. 'Human beings,' he said (And here the toad was trusted absolutely), 'Human beings want death to last forever.' Then Chukwu saw the people's souls in birds Coming towards him like black spots off the sunset To a place where there would be neither roosts nor trees Nor any way back to the house of life. And his mind reddened and darkened all at once And nothing that the dog would tell him later Couuld change that vision. Great chiefs and great loves In obliterated light, the toad in mud, The dog crying all night behind the corpse house. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 03:52 PM Thanks Willa! How are you, m'dear? *S* - I think a lot of Kipling stuff was very much pointing up the 'plight' & the suffering of the ('licentious') & common Soldiery..& 'Tommy' (which is what Gareth posted above, for those that dont know) is a pretty good example of that. Considering he (Kipling) never served in the Army, he had a good grasp of how Soldiers thought & felt, I.M.O. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Willa Date: 07 Oct 01 - 04:06 PM Hi, Paul; I'm fine. Went to Nellie's today. Ickle, Les and Maggie, Bill and Brid Widder were there too. I have 'The Complete Kipling'(verse), and many of his stories; can still remember sitting spellbound listening to the 'Just So Stories'. *BG* |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 04:17 PM *S* I have to admit, I've never actually got around to reading the 'Just So' stories. I certainly SHOULD though. Nor have I got into Seamus Heaney, but I liked what you posted. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Keith A of Hertford Date: 07 Oct 01 - 04:43 PM Thanks Willa. I often sing Soldier Soldier, Road To Mandalay and Screw Guns, and sometimes Gunga Din. I thought the charge of jingoism was being made against the war poets, but it got a bit confused for a while back there. Kippling is not really known for his Great War poems but he wrote some good ones about naval patrolling. Ow's yer soul? Keith. |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE CHILDREN (Rudyard Kipling) From: The Walrus Date: 07 Oct 01 - 04:47 PM Mention of Kipling brings to mind one of his most bitter poems, obviously influenced by the loss of Jack (and published post war of course) which, I think sums up the feelings of many after the conflict, and I fear may be felt by many more. THE CHILDREN 1917 Rudyard Kipling THESE were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight. We have only the memory left of their home-treasured sayings and laughter. The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another's hereafter. Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it. That is our right. But who shall return us the children? At the hour the Barbarian chose to disclose his pretences, And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us, The first felon-stroke of the sword he had long-time prepared for us— Their bodies were all our defense while we wrought our defenses. They bought us anew with their blood, forbearing to blame us, Those hours which we had not made good when the judgment o'ercame us. They believed us and perished for it. Our statecraft, our learning Delivered them bound to the Pit and alive to the burning Whither they mirthfully hastened as jostling for honour— Not since her birth has our Earth seen such worth loosed upon her. Nor was their agony brief, or once only imposed on them. The wounded, the war-spent, the sick received no exemption Being cured they returned and endured and achieved our redemption, Hopeless themselves of relief, till Death, marvelling, closed on them. That flesh we had nursed from the first in all cleanness was given To corruption unveiled and assailed by the malice of Heaven— By the heart-shaking jests of Decay where it lolled on the wires— To be blanched or gay-painted by fumes—to be cindered by fires— To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation From crater to crater. For this we shall take expiation. But who shall return us our children? Walrus |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: The Walrus Date: 07 Oct 01 - 04:52 PM Gareth, Just two quick points. I don't think Rupert Brooke even made it as far as Galipoli, did he? I seem to recall that he died without ever reaching there.
Second, I think that you'll find is a better sourse for Kipling verse, The "Complete" Kipling (on the Poetry Lover's Page) simply isn't - a number of the verses and all the epitaphs are missing. Walrus |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 05:07 PM Its a bit of a thread creep, sorry....but we are getting a bit 'diverse' on this one anyway, but neither of those sites have the Kipling poem that includes the lines: "Beware my Country when my Country grows polite" & I cant remember its actual title, nor can I lay my hands on the book of Kiplings verse I've got that I KNOW has it in. Web Searches havent helped, though I've tried various lines from it. Anyone help? |
Subject: Lyr Add: ET DONA FERENTES (Rudyard Kipling) From: The Walrus Date: 07 Oct 01 - 05:18 PM Paul, Is this the one? ET DONA FERENTES 1896 Rudyard Kipling IN EXTENDED observation of the ways and works of man, From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the Plains of Hindustan: I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise, And the men of half Creation damning half Creation's eyes. I have watched them in their tantrums, all that pentecostal crew, French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew, Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white; But it never really mattered till the English grew polite; Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frockcoats, Till the men who do not duel, till the men who war with votes, Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Lawrence took his grid, Began to "beg your pardon" and—the knowing croupier hid. Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the beer, Felt the psychologic moment, left the lit casino clear; But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul, Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl. . . . . . . . As it was in ancient Suez or 'neath wilder, milder skies, I "observe with apprehension" when the racial ructions rise; And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright, Hear the old casino order: "Watch your man, but be polite. "Keep your temper. Never answer (that was why they spat and swore). Don't hit first, but move together (there's no hurry) to the door. Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells 'em how— "Nous sommes allong ah notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row."' So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far... "Let'em have it!" and they had it, and the same was merry war. Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot— Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot. Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, like a banner fluttered free; Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay; White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic, swift— They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift. Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs— The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons— Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and unperturbed, Till we wake our Island-Devil—nowise cool for being curbed! When the heir of all the ages "has the honour to remain," When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne'er so plain, When his lips are schooled to meekness. when his back is bowed to blows Well the keen aas-vogels know it—well the waiting jackal knows. Build on the flanks of Etna where the sullen smoke-puffs float— Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat— Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite— But oh, beware my Country, when my Country grows polite! |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: AliUK Date: 07 Oct 01 - 05:22 PM The charge of Jingoism I think was first made by me, about some of the First world war poets. Owen certainly had his finger on the pulse of the common soldier, and probably covered in a fair bit of it as well. Kipling was a chronicler who spoke to everybody, a habitual scribbler-down of conversations, wether with a maharaja or a squaddie. Read his Plain Tales from the Hills which are wonderfully vivid in their descriptions of Empire era India. ( Oh God! I'm contributing to thread-creep on the thread I started) :o) |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 05:22 PM Thanks Walrus! YES! |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Paul from Hull Date: 07 Oct 01 - 05:34 PM ..& of course, it IS on the site you posted! *looks sheepish* Ali... *G* |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Gareth Date: 07 Oct 01 - 06:41 PM Walrus - Thanks for that alternative Kipling site, you are probably correct Brooke never made it to Gallipoli. Though I would suggerst that he was as much of a victim as the ANZACs, or the Lancashire Fusilliers on th "River Clyde" I would class Brooke as a War romantic, and the less said about the Armchair Patriots, poets and songwriters the better - And that goes for Ivor Novello as much as anybody. Funny thing, well not so funny, is that in left wing circles Kipling is decried as a chauvenistic reacialist. I normally ask them if they have read any Kipling - The answer is usually NO! Its too long to post and format but those in doubt should read McAndrews Hymn. Gareth |
Subject: Lyr Add: THE HOLY WAR (Rudyard Kipling) From: Willa Date: 07 Oct 01 - 06:43 PM Willa Beat me to it, Walrus. Next one in my book is : THE HOLY WAR Begins A Tinker out of Bedford, A vagrant oft in quod, A private under Fairfax, A minister of God- Two hundred years and thirty Ere Armaggedon came His single hand portrayed it, And Bunyan was his name! and ends: A pedlar from a hovel, The lowest of the low- Father of the novel, Salvation's first Defoe- Eight blinded generations Ere Armaggedon came, He showed us how to meet it, And Bunyan was his name! |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Liz the Squeak Date: 08 Oct 01 - 01:58 AM Do I like Kipling? I don't know I've never Kippled.... 'In Flanders Field' has the merit of actually being written 'in situ', on the back step of an ambulance after one of the Ypres offensives in May 1915. Many of the others were written whilst in barracks or (in at least one case - remember the Ballad of Reading Gaol wasn't written in gaol, or even in Reading) safe at home away from the hell that was the Salient. And if your fellow countrymen are having the crap bombed out of them then a little jingoism is bound to creep in.. take a look at some of the recent threads re:WTC 11/09. That's jingoism at its worst because those propagating it have probably never had to do anything more traumatic than remember that 'O say can you see' doesn't end with the words 'play ball!' LTS |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: GUEST,micca at work Date: 08 Oct 01 - 06:53 AM I too am a great admirer of Wilfred Owen, so much so there is a direct complete line quote from him in a song I wrote that is in the Songbook !! I find with Kipling that it is easy to laugh at his patriotism and Jingoistic style but he was "in and of his time" and it is hard to keep the context straight.. he has however written some of the most(IMHO) memorable poetry of the 19/20 century!! He was a Journalist in India during the Empire and used his journalists interviewing and note taking to record and then write his stories.. and damned good reading they are, if you can remember and accept the context in which he wrote. |
Subject: Lyr Add: VERGISSMEINNICHT (Keith Douglas) From: A Wandering Minstrel Date: 08 Oct 01 - 11:30 AM In a similar vein but from WWII. This always makes my neck hair rise! VERGISSMEINNICHT
Three weeks gone and the combatants gone
The frowning barrel of his gun
Look. Here in the gunpit spoil
We see him almost with content,
But she would weep to see today
For here the lover and killer are mingled Keith Douglas (Killed in Normandy, 1944) |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Deda Date: 08 Oct 01 - 12:49 PM Another father who lost a son and whose view of war was never the same thereafter was Teddy Roosevelt. There was an early (WWI) war-protest song called "I didn't raise my son to be a soldier" (chorus below); when TR heard it he thought it ridiculous, infra dig. He said something like, "You might as well say 'I didn't raise my girl to be a mother'" implying, as he then seemed to believe, that soldiering was the inevitable destiny of men, and mothering that of women. After his son was killed, he began to wonder if he hadn't over-glorified war all along. He never really recovered from that loss, and died in his early 50s from effects of malaria, I believe.
I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier
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Subject: Lyr Add: I DIDN'T RAISE MY BOY TO BE A SOLDIER From: Paul from Hull Date: 08 Oct 01 - 01:32 PM Found it in the Database: I DIDN'T RAISE MY BOY TO BE A SOLDIER
Ten million soldiers to the war have gone |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Deda Date: 08 Oct 01 - 03:46 PM Well, for poetry it sure doesn't compare to the earlier posts. This was pure schmaltz. But it's interesting that there even was any anti-war protest music in WWI, which was more generally accompanied by songs like "Over there", rah rah pep songs. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: Deda Date: 08 Oct 01 - 03:48 PM Sorry -- I figured out how to turn on the bold, but not how to turn it off. :o[ |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: GUEST,AliUK on the works comp. Date: 08 Oct 01 - 05:02 PM I agree with Micca that the jingoism of Kipling is in and of it's time. Thoroughly, we cannot judge him by our standards today. That's why he's not only a great poet but also a wonderful writer, for a connection with Afgahnistan, just read "The Man Who Would be King" ( also see the fantastic movie with Sean Connery and Michael Caine, Plain Tales from the Hills and his childrens books, the most underated and most often ignored being "Puck of Pook's Hill" a delightful history lesson for children of all ages. I still have a well thumbed copy that I brought from England with me. |
Subject: Lyr Add: APOLOGIA PRO POEMATE MEO (Wilfred Owen) From: AliUK Date: 08 Oct 01 - 09:18 PM Maybe just to get this thread back onto Owen for a bit, by the way the Kipling and Sassoon sites are excellent. Here's another one by the "Shropshire Lad" (yeah I know that was actually Somerset Maugham). I found this one almost as haunting as Dulce et Decorum est... APOLOGIA PRO POEMATE MEO I, too, saw God through mud– The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there– Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. For power was on us as we slashed bones bare Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off fear– Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; And witnessed exultation– Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. I have made fellowships– Untold of happy lovers in old song. For love is not the binding of fair lips With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, By Joy, whose ribbon slips,– But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears: You are not worth their merriment. ~November~ 1917. |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: GUEST,Brian Date: 09 Oct 01 - 09:23 AM AliUK. A Shropshire Lad was A.E Houseman. Having read through this thread, it appears no one has mentioned Robert W. Service. He was perhaps better known for his non wartime poems but 'Rhymes of a Red Cross Man' is worth reading. Brian |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: AliUK Date: 09 Oct 01 - 07:34 PM I need to get my authors sorted out :o(~ . Not read much Robert Service, any good links? |
Subject: RE: BS: GAS! GAS! From: GUEST,Brian Date: 10 Oct 01 - 08:21 AM AliUK. I did a web search and found loads references. These should be enough to get you started. Brian |
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Preview Automatic Linebreaks Make a link ("blue clicky") |