Poems for Remembrance Sunday

Last year, as part of a series of posts on the topic of Remembrance, I posted the famous war poem "Dulce et decorum est" by Wilfred Owen. One of the comments I made on it was that it benefited from repeated reading.

Having revisited that post, I still believe it to be true, so I have decided to re-post it:

Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

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 clunky helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering 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 spin,

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.

Also last year, I posted links to Carol Ann Duffy reading her poem "Last Post" which was commissioned by the Today programme.

Last Post by Carol Ann Duffy

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin

that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud…

but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood

run upwards from the slime into its wounds;

see lines and lines of British boys rewind

back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-

mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers

not entering the story now

to die and die and die.

Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.

You walk away. 

You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)

like all your mates do too-

Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-

and light a cigarette.

There's coffee in the square,

warm French bread

and all those thousands dead

are shaking dried mud from their hair

and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,

a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released

from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.

You lean against a wall,

your several million lives still possible

and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.

You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.

If poetry could truly tell it backwards,

then it would. 

Andrew

Search Me

The list below is taken from my Google Analytics report on the top search terms used to reach my blog, since records began in August last year:

As you can see, the most common search was for Gareth Thomas the former Rugby Union player (and Welsh captain) who now plays Rugby League for the Celtic Crusaders. I'd like to think that visits are generated by the quality of my post about the Rugby Football League fining Castleford Tigers for homophobic abuse leveled at Thomas... but I think it has more to do with this picture:

The next search term is the one I'm most pleased with. Other than those who regularly leave comments, or whom you know personally, it can be difficult, even with the aid of various statistics, to know if anyone is that bothered with what you write. Having people search specifically for "oneexwidow blog" is very satisfying!

I used to feature a lot of poetry here, although this has fallen by the wayside a bit recently. Carol Ann Duffy's piece "Warming Her Pearls" seems to be popular - perhaps it is a set poem for pupils studying English...

Must be the Music was Sky's answer to The X-Factor but with less karaoke and preening by the judges and more genuine songwriting and musical talent. I'm looking forward to hearing more of the winner, Emma's Imagination.

The fifth most common search term finds my review of Christopher Nolan's film, Inception. I loved this intelligent take on the Sci-Fi genre.

So that's the top 5 for now... What will it be like in another 15 months time?

Andrew

Warming Her Pearls (Attempt 2)

Yesterday I published a post of a poem by the Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy. As as I had began preparing it last week, however, it's been slotted into my blog around 2 or 3 entries further down, making it look like I hadn't posted anything new for a few days!

If you missed it, you can scroll down to find it or click here.

Andrew

Warming Her Pearls

Recently I posted the poem "Dulce Et Decorum Est" by Wilfred Owen, I've also previously mentioned Carol Ann Duffy, the Poet Laureate, and linked to her Poem "Last Post" within this post.

I posted these in connection with the subject of Remembrance, but I want to explore my poetry horizons further. I'll hopefully be posting other poems as time goes by and I'm kicking off this occasional series with a narrative poem by Carol Ann Duffy.


Warming Her Pearls by Carol Ann Duffy

Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress
Bids me wear them, warm them, until evening
When I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them
Round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,

Resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk
Or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself
Whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering
Each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.

She's beautiful. I dream about her
In my attic bed; picture her dancing
With tall men. Puzzled by my faint, persistent scent
Beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.

I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot
Watch the soft blush seep through her skin
Like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass
My red lips part as though I want to speak.

Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see
Her every movement in my head... Undressing,
Taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching
For the case, slipping naked into bed, the way

She always does... And I lie here awake,
Knowing the pearls are cooling even now
In the room where my mistress sleeps. All night
I feel their absence and I burn.


Andrew

Last Post

Yesterday saw the funeral of Henry Allingham, one of the last 3 British veterans of the 1st World War. Next Thursday, the city I work in will grind to a halt for the funeral of Harry Patch, the last of our servicemen who experienced the Trenches. The only other surviving Brit, Claude Choules, now lives in Australia.

With the passing of Allingham and Patch, the reality of fighting in the Great War has passed out living memory in Britain. While it is inevitable that World War One will eventually become a part of history like Agincourt or Hastings, we need to keep actively remember its reality for as long as possible. We owe it to those who fought for freedom, to those civilians who died on both sides and to our combatants acting out of a similar sense of duty and responsibility to their own countries.

The Great War was the "war to end all wars". The century since has given the lie to this. A second World War was followed by a myriad of other conflicts. Almost daily we hear of another death in Afghanistan. The residents of Wootton Bassett line the streets of their town on a weekly basis as bodies of deceased soldiers are returned for burial.

In this context, remembering past sacrifices becomes both more important and more poignant. The past week should give us pause to reflect on the impact of war. On the human cost of destroyed houses and infrastructure, injuries and death. On the waste of life on all sides. It should make us stop and consider what lessons we have learned (and failed to learn) from our history.

War can be necessary. War can be justified. But it is does not occur in isolation from the rest of society. As the philosopher John Donne said "...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind." This is why the events and sacrifices of the First World War remain relevant today.

Andrew

If you have not heard or read the Poet Laureate, Carol Ann Duffy's poem on this subject, I urge you to read it here. The poem is entitled "Last Post" and the audio version is spine-tingling.