http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dulce_e...ro_patria_mori

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 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 disappointed shells 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 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 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.

**********************

The Manchester Regiment's policy was "Don't ask, don't tell"; Owen was
in love with fellow poet/soldier Siegfried Sassoon. When the object of
one's affections receives a serious head wound, one tends to become
anti-war.

Owen died at the head of a raiding party taking the Sambre-Oise Canal.
His mother received the news on Armistice Day.

**********************

to our friends in London - peace

StanB: Then it must be prose because they're the only two ways to
write.

politikalhack: You're ****tin' me.

StanB: No ****, really.

politikalhack: Really.

StanB: Really.

politikalhack: No ****. Let's go. (Ils ne bougent pas.)

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

StanB wrote:
"Mike Murray" wrote in message
...

A song is not a poem. It's unfair to judge song lyrics without
knowing the constraints imposed by the melody.

Then it must be prose because they're the only two ways to write.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
....But now, I must confide in you. I'm in love with a lady of great
quality, and I wish that you would help me write something to her in a
little note that I will let fall at her feet.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
Very well.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
That will be gallant, yes?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
Without doubt. Is it verse that you wish to write her?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
No, no. No verse.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
Do you want only prose?

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
No, I don't want either prose or verse.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
It must be one or the other.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
Why?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
Because, sir, there is no other way to express oneself than with prose
or verse.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
There is nothing but prose or verse?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
No, sir, everything that is not prose is verse, and everything that is
not verse is prose.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
And when one speaks, what is that then?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
Prose.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
What! When I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my
nightcap," that's prose?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER
Yes, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN
By my faith! For more than forty years I have been speaking prose
without knowing anything about it, and I am much obliged to you for
having taught me that.

StanB wrote:
Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

when god invented everything
he took one breath bigger than a circustent
and everything began

when man determined to destroy himself
he picked the was of shall and finding only why
smashed it into because

~ e. e. cummings

Regards,

Matt

'I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now....'

From "Strange Meeting" by Wilfred Owen. For the full poem see
http://www.hcu.ox.ac.uk/jtap/warpoems.htm

Benjamin Britten's used this and what Neil posted so skillfully in his
"War Requiem"

Best regards,

George John

A man was walking down the street with
a long, flexible pole carried on one shoulder. A tourist asked,
"Excuse me, but are you a pole vaulter?"

"No," the athlete responded. "I am German. But how did you know my name is Walter?"

The USCF's old address on Route 9W always made me think of a similar
one:

To what question is "9W" the answer?
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
Do you spell your name with a "V", Herr Wagner?

A man was walking down the street with
a long, flexible pole carried on one shoulder. A tourist asked,
"Excuse me, but are you a pole vaulter?"

"No," the athlete responded. "I am German. But how did you know my name is Walter?"

The USCF's old address on Route 9W always made me think of a similar
one:

To what question is "9W" the answer?
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
..
Do you spell your name with a "V", Herr Wagner?

On 7 Jul 2005 17:03:18 -0700, "The Historian"
wrote:

Mike Murray wrote:
On Thu, 07 Jul 2005 10:32:49 +0200, Jürgen R. wrote:

This is supposed to be a 'poem', I suppose. Embarrassingly weak.

A song is not a poem. It's unfair to judge song lyrics without
knowing the constraints imposed by the melody.

Nonsense. Song lyrics are poems; here's Exhibit A:

Your claim is one often made by the musically ignorant (I'm not
categorizing you that way -- your comment may be an aberration).

The song is not just the music. The *song* includes both lyrics and
melody and rhythm, etc. Some song lyrics can stand independently as
well-constructed poems, some not. Many poems have been successfully
set to music.

Here's something you can read so you'll be less likely to embarrass
yourself in the future.

http://www.iwritethesongs.com/articl..._vs_poetry.cfm

On Thu, 7 Jul 2005 21:48:50 -0400, "StanB"
wrote:

"Mike Murray" wrote in message
.. .

A song is not a poem. It's unfair to judge song lyrics without
knowing the constraints imposed by the melody.

Then it must be prose because they're the only two ways to write.

That's like saying a billboard must be either prose or verse.