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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Dulce et Decorum
DULCE ET DECORUM
Above brave soldiers’ graves green spears grow high,
crops wave gold ears, they’ve witnessed years flow by.
Poppy enclave scene: tears keen, winds sigh,
here rinse entrenched biers clean – who heeds their cry?
30 July 1977
robi03_0135_robi03_0000 XXX_DJN
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Roses, Rubies, and Strawberries
Mi fantasma dulce
Send me a rose
This Valentine's Day
A single red
Reminds me of
The crimson light
We shared
Years ago
Mi fantasma dulce
Send me a ruby
This Valentine's Day
A single red
Reminds me of
The sparkling passion
We shared
Years ago
Mi fantasma dulce
Send me a strawberry
This Valentine's Day
A single red
Reminds me of
The earthen treats
We shared
Years ago
Mi fantasma dulce
Where did all those red years go?
Of
Roses
Rubies
And
Straw berries
Porque
Es día de San Valentín
Y tú no estás
Aquí
poem by Catman Cohen
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Memorial Day
"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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Ce-ți doresc eu ție, dulce Românie?
„Ce-ți doresc eu ție dulce Românie,
Țara mea de glorii, țara mea de dor?”
Liniște și pace, numai bucurie,
Sfântă unitate, un trai mai ușor.
Să-ți cunoști trecutul, crede-n viitor,
Amintirea veche să nu te umbrească,
Căci ai oameni harnici, popor iubitor,
Viitor de aur ce-o să strălucească.
Să plângi cu vecinii, că așa se cade,
Să fii pentru semeni apă rece, pâine,
Împarte cu frații ale tale roade,
Nu știi niciodată ce aduce... mâine.
Dar și să te bucuri cu cel care râde,
Razele-ți de soare zilnic să zâmbească,
Brațele-ți deschise duios le întinde,
Spre cei care sincer vor să te iubească.
Ce-ți doresc eu ție, dulce Românie?
Că-s un fiu de-al tău vreau să mă mândresc,
Vers în al meu cântec, muză-n poezie
să-mi rămâi de-a pururi, asta îți doresc.
Munții tăi, Carpații, să-ți poarte drapelul,
Dunărea și Marea să te ocrotească,
Stele lucitoare să îți umple cerul,
Dragostea divină să te copleșească.
Ce-ți doresc eu ție dulce Românie?
Cu tine în suflet vreau să înfloresc
ca și macii roșii pe 'ntinsa-ți câmpie,
Dulce Românie, asta îți doresc,
Dulce Românie, veșnic te iubesc.
poem by Marius Alexandru (May 2022)
Submitted by anonym
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We Learned
The decorum of fire...
-- Pablo Neruda
We learned the decorum of fire,
the flame's curious symmetry,
the blue heat at the center of the thighs,
the flickering red of the hips,
& the tallow gold of the breasts
lit from within
by the lantern in the ribs.
You tear yourself out of me
like a branch that longs to be grafted
onto a fruit tree,
peach & pear
crossed with each other,
fig & banana served on one plate,
the leaf & the luminous snail
that clings to it.
We learned that the tearing
could be a joining,
that the fire's flickering
could be a kindling,
that the old decorum of love--
to die into the poem,
leaving the lover lonely with her pen--
was all an ancient lie.
So we banished the evil eye:
you have to be unhappy to create;
you have to let love die before it writes;
you have to lose the joy to have the poem--
& we re-wrote our lives with fire.
See this manuscript covered
with flesh-colored words?
It was written in invisible ink
& held up to our flame.
The words darkened on the page
as we sank into each other.
We are ink & blood
& all things that make stains.
We turn each other golden as we turn,
browning each other's skins like suns.
Hold me up to the light;
you will see poems.
Hold me in the dark;
you will see light.
poem by Erica Jong
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Ablaze
Ablaze! An armoured car
is aflame and stuck in
a field of landmines
and enemy tanks are everywhere.
So soldiers say - on yesterday –
just as the dawn was grey
a Ratels wheels
set some landmines of
and it was stuck there
and received seven shells
from enemy tanks
and it’s a terrible, terrible thing.
So Generals say – on yesterday –
just as the sun was rising
we lost one Ratel-90 armoured car
stuck in a landmine field,
but she gave a brave fight
and the enemy lost
thirteen tanks that came
to take a shot at her.
So angels say – on yesterday –
just as sun lit the sky,
man played war games again
and used explosives, cannon and flame
and innocent men died
trying to survive
and it’s a pity
that man doesn’t know
how to live in peace.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama
Gnashing enemy tanks are coming on
while the Ratel-90 stands still
and many things
goes through my mind.
The shot sounds thundering
and for a moment I am blinded
by smoke, dust and giant flames
that devours things.
The redneck is still shooting
through branches and bushes
with the front machinegun
and it can cost his life
but he shoots on like a machine
and feeds the ammunition belt
and I let the driver pull him in
and he’s again aboard
locked behind armoured steel
where he curses and takes out his rage
and shoot from within
and he speaks a foreign tongue:
“Ac her forþ beraò;
fugelas singaò,
gylleò grœghama”
We drive away with speed
and stop and shoot and drive again
and let projectiles
find their targets deadly
and so we continue for hours
that drag into days
and around us the enemy is shot out
and what is not burning,
is already junk
or just left behind.
Enemy soldiers of Fapla,
Cuba and a few from Russia
lie shot to pieces,
some half burnt
and whole brigades are wiped out
and in the distance I hear jackals howling
and the air is full of vultures
turning in it
while the stench of death,
phosphorous and gunpowder almost suffocates me
and some more dust or maybe emotions
makes my eyes tear.
[References: Redneck=>Englishman. “Ac her forþ beraò; fugelas singaò, gylleò grœghama” => Gaelic for: “For here starts war; carrion birds sing, and grey wolves howl.” From: “The Fight at Finnsburh.” Jackal => a African fox.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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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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5. The Cat
The cat shot over the sleeping dog
And caught it with his paw
The cat shot over the table
Dog chased him through the door
The cat shot over the TV
And Landed in a chair
The cat shot over the ceiling light
Springs shot him through the air
The cat shot over the mirror
A cat gave him a fright
The cat shot over his image
But didn’t want to fight
The cat shot over the fireplace
Burnt tail on red hot coal
The cat shot over the hearthrug
Like a firework on a roll
The cat shot over the window ledge
Burnt curtains caught in the nets
The cat shot over in dad’s old car
For a visit to the vets
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Every man has his moral backside which he refrains from showing unless he has to and keeps covered as long as possible with the trousers of decorum.
quote by Georg C. Lichtenberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nadie Como Ella
Ella sabe darse toda
en un instante
derretir con la mirada
un corazon
ella es fuego que se siente
en mis labios cuando
hacemos el amor
Es una aventura
andar bajo su blusa
poco a poco acariciar
toda su piel
Es un sueno darle un beso
ella sabe que me tiene
a su merced
[Coro]
Mi corazon es suyo
me siento suyo
daria la vida
por volverle a ver
quien iba imaginarlo
yo convertido
en un capricho
de su desnudez
No hay nadie como ella
tan dulce tan bella
me juego la vida por ella
no hay nadie como ella
es fuego que quema
estoy que me muero por ella
Ella no es como las otras
que dejaron
cicatrizes de amargura
y de dolor
vino ella y con ternura
otra vez me hizo creer
en el amor
[Repite Coro]
No hay nadie como ella
tan dulce tan bella
No hay nadie como ella
tan dulce tan bella
Es fuego que quema
y se mete en mis venas
y me juego hasta la vida por ella
No hay nadie como ella
tan dulce tan bella
me he vuelto capricho
de su desnudez
hoy daria todo
por volverla a ver
No hay nadie
que me sepa comprender
como ella
maravilla de mujer
No hay nadie
calma mis ganas de amar
como ella
y por eso quiero mas
quiero mas
song performed by by Marc Anthony from Desde Un Principio / From The Beginning
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why?
If I could paint
I would paint a portrait
of a shot out Ratel armoured car
standing in a landmine field.
Out of which the smoke still rises
And I would print in defencelessness
with every brush stroke
of armoured steel failing
against projectiles
and then becoming a coffin
and enemy soldiers standing grinning
with teeth brilliant white
and bones of fallen comrades
that tried to stop a horde of barbarians
and hyenas and jackals standing drooling
and vultures turning in the sky
and in the background till the horizon
enemy tanks, armoured cars
and men would lay shot to pieces
with pools of blood, intestines
and shot of legs and hands
and the title would be: Why?
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Captain
It’s the third day of the battle
and around us there are enemy tanks
of which the canons keep clapping
and Stalin organ rockets
that falls at places among our men.
Next to me there’s a Captain
with a three day old beard
and his eyes is red of tiredness
while he gives instructions
over the radio.
We shoot till darkness
and through the night
and thunder clap flashes
keep on shooting
the enemy out.
The morning dawns
and the sun rises over the battlefield,
that is soundless and grim
and like two ghosts
we walk around in the bushes.
He wipes dust from his face
while we drive further
through the bushes
and we look out
from the top of the Ratel IFV
and in the distance,
a single rifle shot resounds
and the Captain is dead.
[Reference: Ratel IFV=> Ratel Infantry Fighting Vehicle]
poem by Gert Strydom
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