The best known poem of the first world war by Wilfred Owen:
DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 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 hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.
Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 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,11 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 cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15
8 October 1917 - March, 1918
1 DULCE ET DECORUM EST - the first words of a Latin saying (taken from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country. In other words, it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country
2 rockets which were sent up to burn with a brilliant glare to light up men and other targets in the area between the front lines (See illustration, page 118 of Out in the Dark.)
3 a camp away from the front line where exhausted soldiers might rest for a few days, or longer
4 the noise made by the shells rushing through the air
5 outpaced, the soldiers have struggled beyond the reach of these shells which are now falling behind them as they struggle away from the scene of battle
6 Five-Nines - 5.9 calibre explosive shells
7 poison gas. From the symptoms it would appear to be chlorine or phosgene gas. The filling of the lungs with fluid had the same effects as when a person drowned
8 the early name for gas masks
9 a white chalky substance which can burn live tissue
10 the glass in the eyepieces of the gas masks
11 Owen probably meant flickering out like a candle or gurgling like water draining down a gutter, referring to the sounds in the throat of the choking man, or it might be a sound partly like stuttering and partly like gurgling
12 normally the regurgitated grass that cows chew; here a similar looking material was issuing from the soldier's mouth
13 high zest - idealistic enthusiasm, keenly believing in the rightness of the idea
14 keen
15 see note 1
http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html Please follow the link, well worth it.
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow"
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
* * * * * * * * *
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
* * * * * * * * *
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from Old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you."
So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
Bronte said:Excellent thread RichKid,
My contribution:
SEA FEVER by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again,for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
Submitted to memory many years ago.....
I remember that! It was an awful long time ago though (and the world still hasn't endedJulia said:At Lunchtime - A story of Love
Isn't it funny
How a bear likes honey?
Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!
I wonder why he does?
It's a very funny thought that, if Bears were Bees,
They'd build their nests at the bottom of trees.
And that being so (if the Bees were Bears),
We shouldn't have to climb up all these stairs.
Sir Brian had a battleaxe with great big knobs on;
He went among the villagers and blipped them on the head.
On Wednesday and on Saturday, but mostly on the latter day,
He called at all the cottages, and this is what he said:
"I am Sir Brian!" (ting-ling)
"I am Sir Brian!" (rat-tat)
"I am Sir Brian, as bold as a lion -
Take that! - and that - and that!
Sir Brian had a pair of boots with great big spurs on,
A fighting pair of which he was particularly fond.
On Tuesday and on Friday, just to make the street look tidy,
He'd collect the passing villagers and kick them in the pond.
"I am Sir Brian!" (sper-lash)
"I am Sir Brian!" (sper-losh!)
"I am Sir Brian, as bold as a lion -
Is anyone else for a wash?"
Sir Brian woke one morning, and he couldn't find his battleaxe;
He walked into the village in his second pair of boots.
He had gone a hundred paces, when the street was full of faces,
And the villagers were around him with ironical salutes.
"You are Sir Brian? Indeed!
You are Sir Brian? Dear, dear!
You are Sir Brian, as bold as a lion?
Delighted to meet you here!"
Sir Brian went a journey, and he found a lot of duckweed;
They pulled him out and dried him, and blipped him on the head.
They took him by the breeches, and they hurled him into ditches,
And they pushed him under waterfalls, and this is what they said:
"You are Sir Brian - don't laugh,
You are Sir Brian - don't cry;
You are Sir Brian, as bold as a lion -
Sir Brian, the lion, good-bye!"
Sir Brian struggled home again, and chopped up his battleaxe,
Sir Brian took his fighting boots, and threw them in the fire.
He is quite a different person now he hasn't got his spurs on,
And he goes about the village as B. Botany, Esquire.
"I am Sir Brian? Oh, no!
I am Sir Brian? Who's he?
I haven't got any title, I'm Botany -
Plain Mr. Botany (B)."
Macavity!
Macavity's a mystery cat; he's called the hidden paw
For he's the master criminal who can defy the law
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flaying Squad's despair
For when they reach the scene of crime Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare
And when you reach the scene of crime Macavity's not there
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin
You'd know him if you saw him for his eyes are sunken in
His brow is deeply lined in thought, his head is highly domed
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity
He's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square
But when a crime's discovered then Macavity's not there!
He's outwardly respectable, I know he cheats at cards
And his footprints are not found in any files of Scotland Yard's
And when the larder's looted or the jewel case is rifled
Or when the milk is missing or another peke's been stifled
Or the greenhouse glass is broken and the trellis past repair
There's the wonder of the thing. Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity
There never was a cat of such deceitfulness and suavity
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare
Whatever time the deed took place Macavity wasn't there!
And they say of all the cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone
Are nothing more than agents for the cat who all the time
Just controls the operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity
He's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square
But when a crime's discovered then Macavity, Macavity
Macavity, Macavity
When a crime's discovered then Macavity's not there!
Macavity's not there!
2020hindsight said:THe following is a true story - I met Patch and her owners at the vet's where I had taken my dog for something I thought was important - but unlike them I left with my dog beside me, and much sobered by the experience. I wrote this for them, not that I pretend it has merit - but some may be able to relate to it. When people are mourning they appreciate any simple thought irrespective of technical or artistic merit ( imho).
PATCH, THE BRAVE
(A true story - New Year’s Day 2004.)
They live in the bush on ten acres unsawn, Where the lower Nepean tracks,
And the house is a refuge surrounded by lawn, With a fence where the wilderness backs,
And the summer was hot and the dogs were all sleeping - The noted exception was Patch,
Who was barking excitedly “here boss !!” and leaping, Disturbing the televised match.
The man of the house in a mood opaque, Came out to review the commotion,
And there he discovered she’d bailed up a snake, Which approached the house with its potion,
And SNAKE went for MAN!!! - so DOG went for SNAKE!!! And wife in a panic called “PATCCHHHHH !!!!
Come here girl, My God!! Inside!! For your sake !! Please, dear – this heathen despatch.!!”
He circled the thing like boxers in ring, And twice it coiled back and struck,
He jumped for the spade which he knew he had lain In back of the old pick-up truck,
With one short sharp blow he let the snake know Its number was definitely up,
But now – to the dog – my God!, the dog! Who loved them since she was a pup.
They phoned and they watched for an hour or two, She followed and licked their hand,
They prayed as she circled beside his shoe - They knelt in the hourglass sand.
A small clue that things weren’t all right – and sad - A hint of thick fleam in a cough -
And her eyes looked up, with a “help me Dad – For my breathing gets just a bit rough”.
They drove and they dreamed “may the the dog be unstung”, But the dog grew progressively weak,
She sat in one place and bled in one lung, And licked them both on each cheek.
The vet had a sigh, and a kindly lance, And offered to soften the bill -
But softly she left us, her last gentle glance, Protective and loving still.
THAT’s why we call them “Man’s best friend” - THAT’s why they sleep on the hearth,
And those warm echoed bonds so bountifully mend Through the years as they sleep in our heart.
THAT’s why we treasure their every pricked ear As they “walk the watch” up the street
Cos they teach us love’s rhythms, just they can hear - And they’re here to help give us that beat.
So many shared smiles, yet diverse our styles, Let’s hope paths convergent meet.
Lol spoken like a true dog lover WaynewayneL said:I am going to speak to Joe to see if we can name 2020 as "Official ASF Poet". Whadaya think 20?
wayneL said:I am going to speak to Joe to see if we can name 2020 as "Official ASF Poet".
Whadaya think 20?
Lol - ty New Girl - you left out most of the adjectives I get around here - or at work for that matter lol - "useless, stupid, crazy" lol - but I take refuge in quotes like :-new girl said:Agree.... (various compliments)....JEALOUS.
Dukey said:Here's one of my all time favourites, from the back catalogues of the coolest of cats: Bob Dylan ...
For I'm one too many mornings
And a thousand miles behind.
..... Bob Dylan---------------------------
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