The Price Of War
Their mangled and broken bodies
return home in flag draped caskets.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
while a band plays patriotic
hymns for their services rendered
and a choir to give them a voice.
If I may be so bold to say
that I see no sweetness in death
nor the acclaimed gloriousness
that lyrical poets have penned.
what I see is sugarcoated
rationale for warmongering
dolts. I see no glory in that.
Mortem est pretium bellum.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Related quotes
Pro Patria Mori
World War 1 Soldier Tailem Bend by Illawarrian
Pro patria mori
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
For generations
we've sold these goods
to young boys
who burn for glory.
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Indeed, how sweet,
Pray tell
Poppy covered warrior.
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
How sweet was the Somme?
Such little ground
was gained with
half a generation gone.
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
When weapons
far outpace the men
what an empty word
is glory.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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I saw men
I saw men wetting their pants
when the first bullets fly past them
in their first contact with the enemy
and I saw men,
shot out of their military boots
and lying broken and covered with blood.
I saw men burnt to ashes
by white phosphorous
in a shot out Ratel IFV
and I saw men
left limbless by landmines.
I saw men making the best
of what life dealt them
and fighting to survive
against the odds
and gaining victory,
against a outnumbering foe
and still believing the old lie:
Dulce et decorum est
pro patria mori
[References: Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.=> 'It is sweet and right to die for the homeland”]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Latin One
[ lyrics: wilfred owen/music: j.c. lombardo ]
Bent double like old beggars in sacks
Knockkneed and cursing or coughing like hags
Men marched on sleeping some without boots
Fatigue drunken deaf still to the hoots
Of breaking gas shells
Dropping softly behind
But limped on bloodshod
All went lame all went blind
Gas gas quick boys fumbling helmets in time
Someone still screaming a man in fire or lime
Under a grey cloud dim dark through green light
In all my dreaming before my helpless sight
He plunges at me
Choking guttering drowning
Put in a wagon he had to keep pace
As his eyes melt to his face
If you could hear blood
Gurgling from ruptured lungs
If you could witness
Vile sores on innocent tongues
You would not tell me
Not with such pride and such zest
The lies of history
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori
Some desperate glory
Pro patria mori
As witness disturbs the story
Pro patria mori
Stand firm boys breathe the glory
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori
In 'Dulce Decorum Est' grim realities has Owen told?
Images he witness bore cut into nerve retina of eyeballs?
“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 tired, outstripped Five Nines that dropped behind.”
Wilfred was a conscientious objector, who never believed
in war. Owen believed he had no right to protest against war,
if he had never fought in it. Wilfred wrote realistic anti-war
poems. “Dulce et Decorum Est” is a protest against war.
The lie “Dulce et Decorum Est pro patria mori” Owen denounces
declaring it is not sweet and honourable to die for your country.
Stark grim dark is contrast between false lie and truth reality
powerfully in an account of friend dying soldier demonstrated
Symptoms of chlorine or phosgene gas are correctly described
The 'misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw
him drowning' are accurate descriptions of poison gas covering battlefield Owen haunted by agony memory horrific deaths declares 'In all my dreams
before my helpless sight He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning' attests. Words 'gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs describes, gassed lungs filled with fluid, producing similar effects, as when a person drowns
in water. ‘Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling’ intones
instant cinematic descriptive reality, suddenly reader you must bear witness, to secret scientific weapons research horrors humankinds worst deeds
“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 (Owen declares)
My friend, you would not tell with such zest
The old lie: Dulce et Decorum Est pro patria mori”
because it is not sweet nor honourable to die such deaths
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Truly Said
Truly said
When body is laid on earth
After meeting natural or accidental death
Decency is must for laying the wreath
Some of the souls are born to deliver good
Even though they charge money but enjoy no sweetness of food
Life and death as they see it daily and overcome
Let us pray God to help their hands and welcome
We have crematorium ground where bodies are consummated
Hindu's generally prefer dead bodies to be cremated
Decorum. Respect and honor is maintained by permanent staff
Yet some of the people among then offer their last laugh
They share grief and see that no sentiments are hurt
Even though some consideration they certainly expect
I see the gloom and tragedy take over their faces
As everybody with dead bodies make desperate rush
Even though some of the sacred norms are not maintained
But their services in this regard is certainly praised
They provide timely assistance and direct rituals
Even though for them arrival of dead bodies are just casual
As we see the services and found many lacuna in hospitals
Here the bodies are placed nicely with rituals on rose petals
Hymns are sung and atmosphere is created to make one very sad
No one can hold tears at that time without feeling bad
I devoted much of the time on this article
As I have come across many troubles
Such type of narration at length is necessary and must
As their services are to be appreciated with belief and trust
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Dulce et Decorum Est
1 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
2 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
3 Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
4 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
5 Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
6 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
7 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
8 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
9 Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
10 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
11 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
12 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
13 Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
14 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
15 In all my dreams before my helpless sight
16 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
17 If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
18 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
19 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
20 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
21 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
22 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
23 Bitter as the cud
24 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
25 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
26 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
27 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
28 Pro patria mori.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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The Voice Of America
America has Longfellow and Whittier and Poe
And Frost, Lowell, Bryant and Whitman their legend grow and grow
But the Voice of America to none of these belong
That title belong to one more lyrical one who was a prince of song.
Camptown Races, My Old Kentucky Home and the unforgettable Old Black Joe
His songs as popular today as they were decades ago
My Jeannie With The Light Brown Hair and Hard Times Come Again No More
Are sung in halls and pubs and clubs far from his Homeland shore.
The legacy of his genius lives in the beauty he did create
The name of Stephen Foster is a name to celebrate
His songs withstand the test of time the greatest test of all
The many memorable songs he penned are delightful to recall.
America can boast of many great poets their's is a Worldwide fame
But the one who penned the legendary songs Stephen Foster was his name
Is the Voice of America he did not live to be old
He died young and impoverished or so we have been told.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Profound peace Vavroovahana Patra
Profound peace penetrates in hearts chanting hymns gaily;
Pure devotees dance delightfully.
Purity reigns in the environment;
Peace pervades in devotees with merriment.
Poets depict God’s name in various ways;
Peasants chanting hymns derive gay.
People of all religions praying God derive peace;
Peace of mind is the Divine Bliss.
Peace lies in love, lettering God’s name repeatedly;
Poor people earning money live gaily.
Pleasure plays on the face of all creatures;
Pleasantly smiles the lovely Nature.
Positive thoughts take man to Divinity;
Paradise becomes a home with the bliss of Almighty.
Poetry endowed with god’s name is a stream of nectar;
Popular becomes the poet contenting devotees’ desire.
Pure souls meditate on supreme soul;
Purified persons’ desire is for salvation, their goal.
Patriotic love brings fraternity;
Pleasant poets depict verses with gaiety.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Oxford: Armistice Day
‘Died some pro patria non dulce non et decor.’
So Ezra Pound adapted Horace’s lines
for those whose sufferings for their nation
had bred a dull, dark, painful generation
with gloria cauterised from their minds.
In the calendar their deaths are still recorded.
Poppies and medals and uniforms are worn.
Services are held and sacrifices lauded.
Public concern and private grief are borne.
On a cold November day.
In a cold November wind.
In Oxford 1993,
in remembrance of their sufferings and trials,
cars are towed untidily from St. Giles
and scattered without symmetry in surrounding streets.
To protect old rememberers
from new bombs.
This is the point where past and present meet.
Cadets march tidily down George Street,
to run the gauntlet of upper windows,
from which insults are scattered
like intellectual litter:
‘What a lot! What do you look like? ’
Hard and bitter.
This is the recompense the present shows,
as they turn and turn about,
from windows set in golden stone in upper storeys,
which had been saved, no doubt,
pro patria (sed cum dolore)
by those who fell in thousands,
cast like human litter,
broken and bitter,
upon the dying fields of Flanders.
What they
fell for then
is out of fashion.
They too are not protected
from jibes and slanders;
and their spirits are blown
down Broad Street, past Martyrs’ Memorial
(which commemorates others who died for a faith
which is also out of fashion) .
Stripped of their glory, all
like transcendental dust,
seeking a refuge
among the Just.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Armistice Day
‘Died some pro patria non dulce non et decor.'
So Ezra Pound adapted Horace's lines
for those whose sufferings for their nation
had bred a dull, dark, painful generation
with gloria cauterised from their minds.
In the calendar their deaths are still recorded.
Poppies and medals and uniforms are worn.
Services are held and sacrifices lauded.
Public concern and private grief are borne.
On a cold November day.
In a cold November wind.
In Oxford 1993,
in remembrance of their sufferings and trials,
cars are towed untidily from St. Giles
and scattered without symmetry in surrounding streets.
To protect old rememberers
from new bombs.
This is the point where past and present meet.
Cadets march tidily down George Street,
to run the gauntlet of upper windows,
from which insults are scattered
like intellectual litter:
‘What a lot! What do you look like? '
Hard and bitter.
This is the recompense the present shows,
as they turn and turn about,
from windows set in golden stone in upper storeys,
which had been saved, no doubt,
pro patria (sed cum dolore)
by those who fell in thousands,
cast like human litter,
broken and bitter,
upon the dying fields of Flanders.
What they
fell for then
is out of fashion.
They too are not protected
from jibes and slanders;
and their spirits are blown
down Broad Street, past Martyrs' Memorial
(which commemorates others who died for a faith
which is also out of fashion) .
Stripped of their glory, all
like transcendental dust,
seeking a refuge
among the Just.
poem by Brian Taylor
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It is the soldier who salutes the flag, serves beneath the flag, whose coffin is draped by the flag who gives that protester the freedom to abuse and burn that flag.
quote by Zell Miller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grey Windows...
grey windows, grey buildings,
grey streets, grey skies...
grey figures staring,
grey deals are done!
manipulate gas prices,
manipulate food...
manipulate the economy,
manipulate the election.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
win the war,
never raise a gun,
bodies strewn everywhere!
money makes gods,
without conscience or morals.
human lives just tokens,
that buy trinkets for demons!
flag draped caskets,
the stink of money overwhelms.
while patriots dig graves,
for their mothers and sisters.
right and wrong,
never thought of.
hungry mouths and desperation.
pick a President,
who'll stand silent,
as birds of prey pick the bodies!
grey windows...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Proud Old Glory
I am the blood, I am the soul
I am the essence of liberty, so bold
I am the heart, I am the life
I am the dream and the vision, all that's right
I am the hope, I am the truth
I am the faith and the spirit of the aged and the youth
I am the warmth, I am the breath
I am the peace and the honor, life and death
I am justice, I am love
I stand for freedom, and salute our brave
I serve my country with pride
Old Glory is my name, God made this land my home
I am the proud flag of America
I am the proud flag of America.
poem by Trade Martin
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
Wilfred Owen in Poem: Dulce et Decorum est
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Big Ten Inch Record
Got me the strangest woman
Believe it, this chicks no sinch
When I wanna get her goin
Then I whip out my big ten inch
Record of the band that plays the blues
Well the band that plays the blues
She just loved my big ten inch
Record of her favorite blues
Last night I tried to tease her
I gave my love a little pinch
But she said now stop that jivin
Now whip out your big ten-inch
Record of the band that plays the blues
Well the band that plays the blues
She just loved my big ten inch
Record of her favorite blues
Ill cover her with kisses
And when were in a lovers clinch
She gets all excited
When she puts on my big ten-inch
Record of the band that plays the blues
Well the band that plays the blues
She just loved my big ten inch
Record of her favorite blues
My gal dont go smokin
And liquor just makes her flinch
Seems she dont go for nothin
cept for my big ten-inch
Record of the band that plays the blues
Band that plays the blues
She just loved my big ten inch
Record of her favorite blues
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Who Bury Your Poets
America....
you who bury your poets
like fallen leaves beneath weeping trees.
like the sound of the tire
that strikes the stray cat.
like the trembling dark skinned hands
you ban from your voting booths.
like the flag draped caskets
of your sacrificed young.
like the books you burn
with religious fervor....
like the shuffle of boots
in your unemployment lines.
like the faceless ones
in your clinics shutting down.
like the ones who speak out,
then suddenly disappear.
like the crack pipes and needles
of your 'worthless' poor....
like the babies born to babies
in your rat infested government housing.
like your Native Americans
in your 'poverty prisons'....
like the angry young men
you put behind bars.
like the hungry child sleeping
in the back of a broke down car.
like your factory ghosts
haunting empty shells.
like your foreclosed farms,
the fields left to crows.
America,
you who bury your poets,
and dance drunkenly in empty rooms,
neath the shadow of the noose
your indifference tied!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shrine
Criminals, prostitutes, rapist on the shrine become devotees;
God Siva is the Deity of deities, the Almighty.
Fragrance of jasmines pervades in the environment;
In all devotees plays waves of merriment.
Hymns reverberate in the air;
God contents devotee’s desire.
Poets sing the glory of God day and night;
He fulfils their desire with delight.
God shows the right path;
Chanting hymns devotees glorify the birth.
Life passes with prosperity;
All dedicated devotees derive delight.
Brook of tranquility flows on Earth;
Peasants, poets delight with mirth.
All surrender on the feet of Almighty;
Chaste women enchant with gaiety.
God is the creator, operator destructor;
According to good deeds fulfils all devotees’ desire.
His love is Eternal on Earth;
Is a perennial fountain of mirth.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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When the French Band Plays
THERE'S a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons,
In a certain nameless city's quaint old square.
It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes,
And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer.
When it starts 'Ave Maria' there is no one in the throng
But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise;
And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses sounding strong,
There is flung out on the breeze 'La Marseillaise'?
When it starts to render 'Sambre et Meuse,' the march that won the day
At the battle of the Marne, one sees again
The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern array
Of our gallant sister-ally's blue-clad men.
And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and clear--
While the khaki lads stand steady--then we feel
That, though tongues and ways may vary, we've found brothers over here,
Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel.
For it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by side,
Till their colors set ablaze the grey old square;
And it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, whatever may betide,
That will blaze the way to victory 'up there.'
So, while standing thus together, let us pledge anew our troth
To the Cause--the world set free!--for which we fight.
As the evening twilight gilds the ranks of blue and khaki both,
And the the bugles die away into the night
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Deacon Jones' Grievance
I'VE been watchin' of 'em parson,
An' I'm sorry fur to say
'At my mind is not contented
With the loose an' keerless way
'At the young folks treat the music;
'Tain't the proper sort o' choir.
Then I don't believe in Christuns
A-singin' hymns for hire.
But I never would 'a' murmured
An' the matter might 'a' gone
Ef it wasn't fur the antics
'At I've seen 'em kerry on;
So I thought it was my dooty
Fur to come to you an' ask
Ef you wouldn't sort o' gently
Take them singin' folks to task.
Fust, the music they're be'n singin'
Will disgrace us mighty soon;
It's a cross between a opry
An' a ol' cotillion tune.
With its dashes an' its quavers
An' its hifalutin style —
Why, it sets my head to swimmin'
When I'm comin' down the aisle.
Now it might be almost decent
Ef it wasn't fur the way
'At they git up there an' sing it,
Hey dum diddle, loud and gay.
Why, it shames the name o' sacred
In its brazen worldliness,
An' they're even got 'Ol' Hundred'
In a bold, new-fangled dress.
You'll excuse me, Mr. Parson,
Ef I seem a little sore;
But I've sung the songs of Isr'el
For threescore years an' more,
An ' it sort o' hurts my feelin's
Fur to see 'em put away
Fur these harum-scarum ditties
'At is capturin' the day.
There's anuther little happ'nin'
'At I'll mention while I'm here,
Jes' to show 'at my objections
All is offered sound and clear.
It was one day they was singin'
An' was doin' well enough —
Singin' good as people could sing
Sich an awful mess o' stuff —
When the choir give a holler,
An' the organ give a groan,
An' they left one weak-voiced feller
A-singin' there alone!
But he stuck right to the music,
Tho' 't was tryin' as could be;
An' when I tried to help him,
Why, the hull church scowled at me.
You say that's so-low singin',
Well, I pray the Lord that I
Growed up when folks was willin'
To sing their hymns so high.
Why, we never had sich doin's
In the good ol' Bethel days,
When the folks was all contented
With the simple songs of praise.
Now I may have spoke too open,
But 't was too hard to keep still,
An' I hope you'll tell the singers
'At I bear 'em no ill-will.
'At they all may git to glory
Is my wish an' my desire,
But they'll need some extry trainin'
'Fore they jine the heavenly choir.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Last Cheaters Waltz
(sonny throckmorton)
She was going to pieces when he walked in the door
She had to see him she cant wait no more
Tonight shell be with him no matter the cost
As the band plays the last cheaters waltz
And oooooooohh dont they play lonely
Oooooooohh dont they play sad
Oooooooohh three quarter only
See how he holds her
As the band plays the last cheaters waltz
He tells her he loves her as the music plays on
He tells he loves her but someones at home
The ball games all over and she knows shes lost
As the band plays the last cheaters waltz
And oooooooohh dont they play lonely
Oooooooohh dont they play sad
Oooooooohh three quarter only
See how he holds her
As the band plays the last cheaters waltz
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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