Dark Victory 11/11/18
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.
To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.
In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They'll dress the house in Black tomorrow.
His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he'd be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion
He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war's last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..
There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of shore.
The poet Wilfred Owen, died in an attack on a German Machine gun nest on 11/04/1918, one week before the Germans sued for peace. His parents received word that their only son had died just as the Church bells were rung to celebrate the Armistice. Albion is a archaic name for Great Britain
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Related quotes
No Greater Loyalty
This will be our family secret don't tell others how he died
Never mention how my darling son took his own life in suicide
Don't want them saying he opted out of life they would never understand
How our beloved teenager he died at his own hand.
Don't tell anyone we found him hanging from the low branch of a tree
Tell them 'twas of a heart attack that he died suddenly
We do not need their judgements my son must rest in peace
It was of his own choosing that from life he choose release.
Of the darkness that surrounded him we never were to know
The mother she has shed her tears for her son who died six months ago
For to save him from the judgements of the living for her dead son she will lie
She will never admit that he was one who choose his own way to die.
No greater loyalty than the loyalty of a mother when all is said and done
From the judgements of the living she lies to protect her dead son
She takes flowers twice a week to place on the grave where he does lay
And she will grieve for her deceased son till her own dying day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Last Laugh
'Oh! Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!
Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed,-'O Mother, -Mother, - Dad!'
Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured,-Fool!
And the splinters spat, and tittered.
'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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Smile, Smile, Smile
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.
Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned;
For, said the paper, "When this war is done
The men's first instinct will be making homes.
Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,
It being certain war has just begun.
Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, --
The sons we offered might regret they died
If we got nothing lasting in their stead.
We must be solidly indemnified.
Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,
We rulers sitting in this ancient spot
Would wrong our very selves if we forgot
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought,
Who kept this nation in integrity."
Nation? -- The half-limbed readers did not chafe
But smiled at one another curiously
Like secret men who know their secret safe.
This is the thing they know and never speak,
That England one by one had fled to France
(Not many elsewhere now save under France).
Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,
And people in whose voice real feeling rings
Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.
23rd September 1918.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous specter to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much
For the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal,7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
poem by Steven Cooke
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Max Rosenthau
Father Cleary sat at table with Max many a day
But I don't think he rated a bounteous gift when Max came to visit
Both were guests in the great house acrosss the street of youth
Father for years and Max for yearly one week stints.
The last time Max came was when his wife died
A man so profoundly broken
Even a fourteen year old could start to understand
That the desperation of his giref was the force that drove Max to Mass
Where Father from his view could not give communion to a Jew
And snapped the neck of something deep within me
That despite Father's great friendship
Never came back though I never said a word to Father Cleary.
poem by Bill Grace
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Disease War Endemic To Planet Earth?
Does not brave slain blood of Wilfred
Owen cry out from battlefield ground?
Testify his faith a pacifist is God’s way
They lie who claim say a coward’s way
Wilfred Owen British army enlisted
to prove false lie upon killing score
With grim realism deep ingrained
Owen testified truth murder is war
In 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' told
how men die as cattle slaughtered
listen to these words burn in mind
grim know war is murder legalized
“What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle”
“ No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; ”
youth mothers’ sons
born to be slaughtered
in foreign wars?
If meant to be why did God
not create savage claws
for boy babies hands?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Watching You, Watching Me, Watching You, Watching Everyone
So this is Great Britain
A green and pleasant land?
The home of CCTV Camera’s
To get speeding drivers banned
So this is Great Britain
The welfare state, & NHS
Great British Institutions?
Some think they’re in a mess
So this Is Great Britain
That once ruled the waves
An Empire and a Commonwealth?
Now issues ASBO’s if one misbehaves
So this is Great Britain
The Mother of Democracy?
The House of Commons and Lords
Ensuring justice & liberty?
So this is Great Britain
Where God saves the Queen
A land of hope & glory?
You can vote at age eighteen
So this is Great Britain
Are the pensioners in poverty?
They’ve never had it so good?
They’re all having a nice cup of tea
So this is Great Britain
A class system breeding inequality
Education, Education, Education?
Needing a dose of political honesty
So this is Great Britain
Still the mother of the free?
The police, council, & MI5
Are watching you or watching me
poem by Gordon David
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When They Ring Those Golden Bells
Traditional: arranged by emory gordy / patty loveless
Theres a land beyond the river that we call the sweet forever
And we only reach that shore by faith, you see
Yes I want to see my jesus
Shake his hand and have him great us
When they ring those golden bells for you and me
Dont you hear the bells a-ringin
Cant you hear the angels singin
Its a glory hallelujah jubilee
In the far off great forever just beyond the shining river
When they ring those golden bells for you and me
When our days have known their number
When in death we sweetly slumber
When the kingdom mends the spirit to be free
Therell be no more stormy weather
Well live peacefully together
When they ring those golden bells for you and me
Dont you hear the bells a-ringin
Cant you hear the angels singin
Its a glory hallelujah jubilee
In the far off great forever just beyond the shining river
When they ring those golden bells for you and me
When they ring those golden bells for you and me
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mangan
Arguably the greatest poet old Ireland has seen
'Twas he penned the poem known as 'Dark Rosaleen'
In eighteen forty nine in his mid forties in poverty he died
Though true genius of him never can be denied
The great James Clarence Mangan Ireland's National bard
His journey through life was to say the least hard
He lived as he died in abject poverty
Yet one could not name many poets as great as he
From consumption and poor diet and neglect he died very young
For him no State funeral and he was unsung
Despite his hard life it seems a remarkable feat
That so many great poems the great poet did bequeath
To Ireland and it's people though he died just past his prime
As one of the poor souls of the Dublin of his time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Last Week
Oh, the new-chum went to the backblock run,
But he should have gone there last week.
He tramped ten miles with a loaded gun,
But of turkey of duck saw never a one,
For he should have been there last week,
They said,
There were flocks of 'em there last week.
He wended his way to a waterfall,
And he should have gone there last week.
He carried a camera, legs and all,
But the day was hot and the stream was small,
For he should have gone there last week,
They said,
They drowned a man there last week.
He went for a drive, and he made a start,
Which should have been made last week,
For the old horse died of a broken heart;
So he footed it home and he dragged the cart --
But the horse was all right last week,
They said,
He trotted a match last week.
So he asked all the bushies who came from afar
To visit the town last week
If the'd dine with him, and they said "Hurrah!"
But there wasn't a drop in the whisky jar --
You should have been here last week,
He said,
I drank it all up last week!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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In A Week Or Two
(james house/gary burr)
In a week or two
I would have been ready
I would have known what to say
But I missed my chance
When the words I love you
Came just a little too late
In a week or two
I was gonna bring you diamonds
In a week or two
A long, long string of pearls and
We wouldve run down to the river at night
Sailed away, just me and you
In a week or two
A little more time
Was all I needed
But somehow fall became spring
But put off today
What you can do tomorrow
Sometimes you dont do a thing
In a week or two
I was gonna bring you diamonds
In a week or two
A long, long string of pearls and
We wouldve run down to the river at night
Sailed away, just me and you
In a week or two
These words in my heart never had a chance to be heard
But Im telling you now for all that its worth
In a week or two
I was gonna bring you diamonds
In a week or two
A long, long string of pearls and
We wouldve run down to the river at night
Sailed away, just me and you
In a week or two
song performed by by Diamond Rio
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells yea heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells!
Ring them bells Saint Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
That the rush hour is now on the wheel and the plow and the sun is going down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells Saint Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willows weep
And the mountains are filled with little lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few who would judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells for the time that flies
song performed by by Heart from Desire Walks On
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Resurrection of Moshe gimp
The Einsatzgrupen rounded up
the Juden of SWIEBODZIN.
They first led out the men and boys
The younger children crying.
The Germans forced us to disrobe,
I saw my Father naked.
We faced a pit dug in the ground
then began the murder.
My father pushed me to the ground
as machine gun fire raked the line.
I found myself beneath the pile
of the bleeding, dead and dying.
A single gunshot here and there
They finished all who moved.
But I played dead convincingly
My Dad would have approved.
When the Germans tossed in lime and dirt
I didn’t make a sound.
There was air, foul, but fit to breathe,
beneath the earthen mound.
I listened till I could be sure
The assassins all had gone.
I struggled up toward the light
past the bleeding, dead and gone.
Once clear I raced towards the woods
to find a place to hide.
By grace of G-d, a righteous man
For pity, took my side.
With fake name and faked papers
I made it through alive.
Now I am here, Moshe Gimp
To speak for all who died
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Without Just Cause.
My maiden aunt had little chance.
Because the man she was to wed
Was one of those who fell in France
listed as missing presumed dead.
Her happiness a casualty
which never figured in the news
She had to face reality
a future which she did not choose.
She was condemned to life alone
Because so many young men died
all chance of motherhood was gone.
She bore her fate with stoic pride.
She helped to raise her sister’s brood.
Her husband too unfit to go.
She mothered them as best she could
the only joy she’d ever know.
She was a treasure left unclaimed
a mother she would never be.
Only the Great War could be blamed
for many women’s misery.
She lived to see a ripe old age.
She died in nineteen forty one
just long enough to see the stage
prepared for another one.
Another war to end all wars
Just as the first Great War had been.
To her it was a hopeless cause
she saw the slaughter as obscene.
Young men will answer to the call
but womenfolk are left behind
To mourn their menfolk when they fall
A fate that’s very far from kind.
I think that she was glad to go
she knew from hard experience.
What other girls would come to know
when sorrow takes up residence.
20-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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London Bells
Two sticks and an apple,
Ring the bells at Whitechapel.
Old Father Bald Pate,
Ring the bells Aldgate.
Maids in white aprons,
Ring the bells at St. Catherine`s.
Oranges and Lemons,
Ring the bells at St. Clement`s.
When will you pay me?
Ring the bells at the Old Bailey.
When I am rich,
Ring the bells at Fleetditch.
When will that be?
Ring the bells of Stepney.
When I am old,
Ring the great bell at Paul`s.
A Week From Today
A week from today it will be the sixth anniversary of the day the towers crumbled.
A week from today the vivid pictures will flash across the television screen remind us of that day.
A week from today mothers, fathers, sons, daughter, friends and even strangers will gather at ground zero and weep as they remember the death the saw that day.
A week from today the President will get on television as we are grieving and remind us this is the reason we’re in Iraq.
And a week from today just like today I will look at my television and yell to the president that is bullshit. You SOB you used our anger and hunger for vengeance of that day to make us believe war is the only way to fight terrorist.
My heart goes out to all those who died from this war and those who died on what will be six years ago A week from today.
On Leaving Bath.
The Britons, in their Nature shy,
View Strangers with a distant Eye:
We think them partial and severe;
And judge their Manners by their Air:
Are undeceiv'd by Time alone;
Their Value rises, as they're known.
Here many a worthy Mind I found,
With Sense and Taste, by Virtue crown'd,
At once so truly good and great,
They knew to bear a prosp'rous State.
Few take from noble Blood Pretence
To act or look with Insolence:
Veins, with the richest Purple dy'd,
But seldom swell the Heart with Pride,
So, tho' the River--Gods, from high,
With plenteous Urns the Streams supply,
Which still enlarge, as they descend,
Roll down, and in the Ocean end,
Thro' Ages pour'd; yet, to our Eyes,
Old Ocean is too great to rise.
The gen'rous Treatment I have met,
Hath run me deep in Albion's Debt:
And, could my artless Lines impart
The grateful Dictates of my Heart,
Latest Posterity should know
The Sense I have of what I owe.
Dear Bath, a long, a last Adieu!
Since I no more shall visit you;
Nor fix'd by Choice, but barr'd by Fate,
From a Felicity so great.
O may thy Waters ever be
Healthful to others, as to me!
Had Ovid, with prophetic View,
Beheld the Wonders wrought by you,
Medea's Arts he might have spar'd,
And Life by thee alone repair'd.
poem by Mary Barber
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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet VIII
And so it was that, sitting ever thus
Dumb to all speech of those that knew her woe
And bare with her sole sorrow in the house,
And ever watching with sad eyes below
To see if any came with help for her
Whom none could help with pity or with pride
Or word of patience, ere her time was near,
She bore her yet unliving child and died.
There was great mourning for her in those days
Because of her high lineage and fair youth.
Men knowing her spoke nobly in her praise,
Or knowing not yet mourned for very ruth.
And all Rome wept for her, and far and wide
The fame was noised how of her love she died.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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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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Preface
This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak
of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,
dominion or power,
except War.
Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.
The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.
Yet these elegies are not to this generation,
This is in no sense consolatory.
They may be to the next.
All the poet can do to-day is to warn.
That is why the true Poets must be truthful.
If I thought the letter of this book would last,
I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives Prussia, --
my ambition and those names will be content; for they will have
achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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