When I was at school we did a section in my literature class on the war poets, which started a bit of an obsession for me. Not only were the words so incredibly moving but the idea that thy had been written by men, well boys really, who were not all that much older than me was a fact that I found very difficult to grasp.
The idea that these minds of such talent were in that most horrific of places and were still inspired to put pen to paper with such imagery and skill was something that both touched and haunted me. For obvious reasons every year around this time I'm drawn back to them and spend a few quiet hours reading through some of my favorites, one of which I posted last year and another which you will find below.
Last year I used the phrase "Lest We Forget" as my title. I think that in this day and age where so often disrespect is showed for tradition and for those that trod before us,, the fact that I see so many poppies on lapels is incredible. Every year I somehow expect for it to be somewhat lessened, that I will wake up one morning and the desecration of war memorials will not be viewed with horror and that the wearing of poppies will be considered trite and unnecessary. G tells me though that poppies are available at school and that the vast majority of pupils are wearing them, so hopefully there will be at least one more generation after mine that will remember, that will read the war poets and feel the chill of the images that they weave. I think, I hope that if we can continue that, forgetting will never be an option.
Dulce et Decorum est
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 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.
