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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Related quotes
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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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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In A Cold Wind
In a cold wind
in a night wind,
under a yellow street-light,
its paleness and the dark night.
Leaves blown past,
down the wind, cast
onto the silent roadway,
or in heaps, on the footway.
The houses that rise
into grey skies,
windows with drawn curtains,
facing onto pale gardens.
Slow in the sky,
the clouds moving by;
on the ground, the shadows blurred,
the whistling wind heard.
And the wind that blows
comes not, nor goes.
In this night, its sound
wraps all around.
Not here alone,
its long low drone,
along endless fences and hedges,
insidiously edges.
Now is the hour,
now is the closing of the flower,
an end to approaching and retreating,
to losing and defeating,
in a cold wind,
in a night wind,
on a corner of a cold street,
where all directions meet.
poem by Rory Hudson
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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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0009 Persian vase, Persian thoughts
As you enter this quiet and peaceful sunlit room,
it seems at first all space; but then your eye
- as is intended – straightway drawn
to that fine Persian vase which sits
upon an old oak chest, its lid, polished
with the wax of love and years,
a crack across it somehow speaking
of trials borne and overcome;
the tale of life, of time, of history, of lessons learnt.
The chest – it’s cedar lined, as aromatic as memory
when the lid is opened – does not now hold,
as when it was first carpentered, a bridal trousseau;
a girl given with fine clothes to destiny -
now, precious family documents
that tell of rights and duties, high positions
and their responsibilities, once held;
past, present and future, public life and private,
aromatic in the memory.
The vase is cool and vivid, curls of blue and white;
a cobalt blue, the colour of far-seeing beauty –
the surface colour seen in deepest sea;
the colour which the upper air, in flight,
seems to yearn for; as if we look
into the vase and through it and beyond it;
the white’s so white, it speaks of purity;
and here are touches of an emerald green
which sets off both, as if jewelled thoughts
are never far away from golden minds
I am the potter, speak that vase:
I am the eye that draws your eye,
I am the beauty that may touch your heart;
and to your mind, I bring the thought –
I too was born of dust, of clay and precious water,
decorated with a potter’s love;
one day I shall, by that accident which reigns
in life that passes, be broken into pieces
and return to dust…
you and I, our past is dust, our future dust –
but oh, the beauty of the present that’s eternal,
the joyous dancing of the here and now…
cobalt blue like sea and sky, innocent as white,
emerald as green fields fresh diamonded with dew..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Losses
It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before
In the routine crashes-- and our fields
Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks,
And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac,
Scattered on mountains fifty miles away;
Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend,
We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died
For us to figure we had died like.)
In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed
The ranges by the desert or the shore,
Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores--
And turned into replacements and woke up
One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died
It was not an accident but a mistake
(But an easy one for anyone to make.)
We read our mail and counted up our missions--
In bombers named for girls, we burned
The cities we had learned about in school--
Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among
The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals;
When we died they said, 'Our casualties were low.'
They said, 'Here are the maps'; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying;
But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead,
And the cities said to me: 'Why are you dying?
We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?'
poem by Randall Jarrell
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November Nights
September nights
Tend to scream
'Baby I thought you
Said you loved me'
October nights
Remind me
Of 'we' the 'us':
So in love.
November nights
November nights
What A fright
November nights
Ending of my present life
Nothing ever seemed so right
I need you by my side
I died, I died on November nights
September nights
what a wonderful thing
My beginning
How Ironic.
My birth day
Our beginning
Oh what a wonderful month
September means love
October nights
Oh so beautiful
Happiness, hope
A whole family
My daddies' birthdays
One here, one deceased
Praised and mourned
Mixed Octobers
November nights
Panic. Thanksgiving.
Thanks for what?
November killed my father
November nights
A car crash
14 years ago
And then you end me
November nights
November nights
What A fright
November nights
Literal ending of his life
Nothing ever seems all right
Momma needed him by her side
He died, He died on a November night
poem by Gabriella Franco
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Sonnet: Sufferings- the Key to Life
Through sufferings, we are born to lead this life;
Through sufferings, we are even baptized;
Through sufferings, we all must meet our strife;
Through sufferings, we’re even magnetized.
Through sufferings, sometimes we have our joy!
Through sufferings, we earn our livelihood;
Through sufferings, we grew to man from boy;
And sufferings’ our teacher from childhood!
Through sufferings, we learn in life good things;
Through sufferings, we learn to live well, pray!
Through sufferings, big truths, this world us brings;
By sufferings, we fight ‘gainst Tempter’s ways.
Yet, sufferings- a blessing God us gave,
To keep the road to Heaven, well behave!
poem by John Celes
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On Saints and Martyrs
Our sufferings are not greater than those
Martyrs, prophets, apostles, saints, who died,
A death of persecution for Christ's sake;
Upon their blood-shed sprung the Catholic Church!
Lives of all these holy persons reveal
The Holy Spirit dwelt within their flesh,
Emboldening their spirits to the core,
So that their faith remained until last breath!
Let Christians offer their sufferings to Christ,
Who took upon Himself all mankind's sins
And died upon the cross redeeming man,
And opened heaven to penitent souls!
How wonderful to bear witness to Christ!
Lord remembers all those who died for Him;
He promised eternity for those souls,
Who lived for Christ's sake all through their lives!
God's glory shines through exemplary lives,
Who lost their lives for sake of faith and Christ;
They will be closest to God in heaven,
Remaining so unto eternity!
poem by John Celes
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A Reflection on Lawson's Poems
Seasons bloom and seasons wither; dark or bright, they cannot last.
Must we try with floods of bitter teas to vivify the past?
Vainly chase the brown and broken blossoms blown along the blast?
Shall we scorn the flowers around us - red, or blue, or white as snow -
Flowers giving loads of fragrance unto all the winds that blow
Must we hide our eyes and falter: 'O, the days of long ago!'
Never stop to look behind you, if the blaze of glory there
Blinds you to the splendour stretching round about and everywhere.
True, the past was pleasant, Lawson, but the present is as fair.
I, too, love the days when heroes, seeking treasure, seaward sped;
Days of Drake, when English sailors followed where their leaders led;
Days when Marlowe trod the glowing clouds, that thundered to his tread.
Even then, though, there were cowards, traitors, swindler, 'business men,'
Plot and murder, slave and master, secret sneer, and wounding pen;
And the poets thought the present vile and barren even then.
And their comrades were no better than some modern mates we meet -
Even though they don't go wearing tights and feathers in the street;
And the girls are dear as ever, and their kisses just as sweet.
Sing the present; dropp the drivel of the 'days evanished,' please!
Though you pray until your pants are burst or baggy at the knees,
You can't bid the sun go backward - no, not even ten degrees.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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Song Of The Six Hundred M.P.'S
‘We are 'ere met together
in this momentous hower,
Ter lick th' bankers' dirty boots
an' keep the Bank in power.’
We are 'ere met together
ter grind the same old axes
And keep the people in its place
a'payin' us the taxes.
We are six hundred beefy men
(but mostly gas and suet)
An’ every year we meet to let
some other feller do it.'
I see their 'igh 'ats on the seats
an' them sprawling on the benches
And thinks about a Rowton 'ouse
and a lot of small street stenches.
'O Britain, muvver of parliaments,
'ave you seen yer larst sweet litter?
Could yeh swap th' brains of orl this lot
fer 'arft a pint o' bitter?'
‘I couldn't,' she sez, ‘an' I aint tried,
They're me own,' she sez to me,
‘As footlin' a lot as was ever spawned
to defend democracy.'
poem by Ezra Pound
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Down Lo Ho (Interlude)
Featuring The Refugee All Stars
I wanna dedicate this song,
gone til november,
to all you ladies out there,
crying all alone in your room,
and all you fellas,
goin down south, and not making it back,
may the lord bless your soul.
Every time I make a run,
girl you turn around and cry,
I ask myself why oh why,
see you must understand,
I cant work a 9 to 5,
so ill be gone til november,
said ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
you tell my girl ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
you tell my girl ill be gone til november,
janurary, feburary, march, april, may,
I see you crying but girl i cant stay,
ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
and give a kiss to my mother,
girl I gotta leave please dont cry,
when I come back you know the limits the sky,
ill take you out to dinner to your favorite spot,
fejuion and fateesion just to get you high,
drive by movies by the cemetary,
if my corps could talk then i'd tell him I was sorry,
life stories of the rich and famous,
some guy with the name some guy name less,
every time I make a run,
girl you turn around and cry,
I ask myself why oh why,
see you must understand,
I cant work a 9 to 5,
so ill be gone til november,
said ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
you tell my girl ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
you tell my girl ill be gone til november,
janurary, feburary, march, april, may,
I see you crying but girl I cant stay,
ill be gone til november,
ill be gone til november,
yo give a kiss to my mother,
we are none had to do some,
so im knocking on h
song performed by by Wyclef Jean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Childrens Crusade
Young men, soldiers, nineteen fourteen
Marching through countries theyd never seen
Virgins with rifles, a game of charades
All for a childrens crusade
Pawns in the game are not victims of chance
Strewn on the fields of belgium and france
Poppies for young men, deaths bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
The children of england would never be slaves
Theyre trapped on the wire and dying in waves
The flower of england face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
Corpulent generals safe behind lines
Historys lessons drowned in red wine
Poppies for young men, deaths bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
All for a childrens crusade
The children of england would never be slaves
Theyre trapped on the wire and dying in waves
The flower of england face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
Midnight in soho, nineteen eighty-four
Fixing in doorways, opium slaves
Poppies for young men, such bitter trade
All of those young lives betrayed
All for a childrens crusade
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Earth
Spring bursts violently
into Moscow houses.
Moths flutter about
crawl on summer hats,
and furs hide secretly.
Pots of wallflowers and stock
stand, in the window, just,
of wooden second storeys,
the rooms breathe liberty,
the smell of attics is dust.
The street is friends
with the bleary glass,
and white night and sunset
at one, by the river, pass.
In the passage you’ll know
what’s going on below
and April’s casual flow
of words with drops of thaw.
It’s a thousand stories veiled
in a human sadness,
and twilight along the fence
grows chill with the tale.
Outside, or snug at home
the same fire and hesitation:
everywhere air’s unsure.
The same cut willow twigs,
the same white swell of buds,
at crossroads, windows above,
in streets, and workshop-doors.
Then why does the far horizon weep
in mist, and the soil smell bitter?
After all, it’s my calling, surely,
to see no distance is lonely,
and past the town boundary,
to see that earth doesn’t suffer.
That’s why in early spring
we meet, my friends and I,
and our evenings are – farewell documents,
our gatherings are – testaments,
so the secret stream of suffering
may warm the cold of life.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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On Lillian Way
night
cold gray against greenish black
street lamp globes against
rectangle buildings
sitting in a parked car
along the deserted alleyways
off santa monica boulevard
car windows fogged
the cold green street lights
filtered through the prism
of a broken windshield
delicate spiderwebs of
white light diffusion
only in L.A.
a prostitute stands
against the bare wall
under a street light
with traffic going by
on the sidewalk
across the street
cocaine sellers asking
“what do you want? ”
“what do you need? ”
beside the building
a bottle and can collector
inspects a long low
excuse for a trash barrel
the prostitute
draws a lot of attention
cars pull to the curb
windows unwind
in the car adjacent
derelicts are fixing dope
shooting up in the
luminous twilight
now the whore has a trick
a car door slams
and tires spin away
much like a river
the wind has stirred up the palm leaves
and palmetto shadows
extra currents for a
3 a.m. late night traffic flow
much like my soft core
more than usually hard core
translucent shadows
on the concave street
vertical street signs
body schisms
poem by Theresa Haffner
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The Horrible Scene
On their deaths lies 46 dreadful tales
From their blood emerged boiling ire of revenge
Eyes on fire, multiple grinding teeth of tigers
Hearts ripped apart from their lost of kin
Massacre covered the glowing day of dreams
Slugs litter, Blood scattered
Watered the land in red, painted the lane - departed
Some were buried alive, some were raped
All ruthlessly slayed, in the name of political reign
Is this how to win the power by exterminating your contender?
Justice to those victims of this horrible scene!
Justice scream to those Maguindanao Massacre victims!
Don't just stand there watching, do something to stop these killings!
We are begging......please be God fearing, those who are ruling!
We don't want these scenes, we don't want sufferings.....please stop slaying! ! !
25th 0f November,2009
Please pray for all the victims of these dreadful injustices happening around the world! ! !
Thanks and love to all of you.......
poem by Catrina Heart
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Streets Of Little Italy
(robbie seidman)
Producer for bonnie: desmond child
The narrow and the winding ways
The streets of old new york
The families, the street life, the spark
The rooftop where we watched
San gennaros festival
Masquerades in the dark...
On the streets down in little italy
Where the past goes on and on forever
And I feel it ever present
In every step I take alone
On the streets down in little italy
The oceans and the years
That separate our lives
From these streets we once called our home
Those distances of space and time
How strong they are
And how weak they are...
On the streets down in little italy
Where the past goes on and on forever
And I feel it ever present
In every step I take alone
On the streets down in little italy
Does the morning sunlight
Still hit the bed where we used to lie
Do the sidewalk stands and markets still overflow
Where I lingered till I was empty
Where I stayed till I had to go
Though in the night
Sometimes I see you disappear
Down cobblestones...
On the streets down in little italy
Where the past goes on and on forever
And I feel it ever present
In every step I take alone
Like your presence in my bones
On the streets down in little italy
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Old Times
Friend of my youth, let us talk of old times;
Of the long lost golden hours.
When "Winter" meant only Christmas chimes,
And "Summer" wreaths of flowers.
Life has grown old, and cold, my friend,
And the winter now, means death.
And summer blossoms speak all too plain
Of the dear, dead forms beneath.
But let us talk of the past to-night;
And live it over again,
We will put the long years out of sight,
And dream we are young as then.
But you must not look at me, my friend,
And I must not look at you,
Or the furrowed brows, and silvered locks,
Will prove our dream untrue.
Let us sing of the summer, too sweet to last,
And yet too sweet to die.
Let us read tales, from the book of the past,
And talk of the days gone by.
We will turn our backs to the West, my friend,
And forget we are growing old.
The skies of the Present are dull, and gray,
But the Past's are blue, and gold.
The sun has passed over the noontide line
And is sinking down the West.
And of friends we knew in days Lang Syne,
Full half have gone to rest.
And the few that are left on earth, my friend
Are scattered far, and wide.
But you and I will talk of the days
Ere any roamed, or died.
Auburn ringlets, and hazel eyes
Blue eyes and tresses of gold.
Winds joy laden, and azure skies,
Belong to those days of old.
We will leave the Present's shores awhile
And float on the Past's smooth sea.
But I must not look at you, my friend,
And you must not look at me.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Factory Windows Are Always Broken
Factory windows are always broken.
Somebody's always throwing bricks,
Somebody's always heaving cinders,
Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.
Factory windows are always broken.
Other windows are let alone.
No one throws through the chapel-window
The bitter, snarling, derisive stone.
Factory windows are always broken.
Something or other is going wrong.
Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark.
End of factory-window song.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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