A bitter-sweet poem for the start of Anzac Weekend, of a husband going off to war …
‘Off to the English Civil War’
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To warlike arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I serve
The first foe in the field
And with a sterner faith embrace
The sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore.
I could not love thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more.
– Richard Lovelace (1618-1657)
Very moving.
ReplyDeleteJust a small point though... I don't think Richard Lovelace lived his life over 161 years going backwards in time (!)
Cramped in that Funnelled Hole
ReplyDeleteCramped in that funnelled hole, they watched the dawn
Open a jagged rim around; a yawn
Of death's jaws, which had all but swallowed them
Stuck in the bottom of his throat of phlegm.
They were in one of many mouths of Hell
Not seen of seers in visions, only felt
As teeth of traps; when bones and the dead are smelt
Under the mud where long ago they fell
Mixed with the sour sharp odour of the shell.
Wilford Owen
-The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner:
ReplyDeleteFrom my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
-Randall Jarrell
In Valor, There Is Hope
ReplyDeleteTactius
There was blood upon the risers,
ReplyDeleteThere were brains upon the chute.
Intestines were a dangling from his paratrooper chute.
He was a mess
they picked him up and poured him from his boots.
He ain't gonna jump no more.
"Blood Upon the Risers" WWII paratrooper song.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
ReplyDeleteBetween the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
We lived in peace
ReplyDeleteNever thought of war
But it was thrust upon us
Our blood spilled on the floor
In one mighty breathe we say
We shall not take it anymore
For we are Ukraine, our National Spirit Soars...
Leland Grim