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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Related quotes
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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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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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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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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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
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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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Japan is the only country in the world which suffered from the scourge of nuclear weapons.
quote by Yoshiro Mori
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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It is my strong hope that an environment will be created in which both of our countries can cooperate for the realization of a world without nuclear weapons.
quote by Yoshiro Mori
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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0381 Spider on the Web
so here I am, sitting here, as I write to you,
half of me thinking about poetry and everything,
half of me thinking, time to shut down the PC,
you're not married to the thing or are you
when a brown spider, all of a centimeter across
is suddenly there in front of me on the PC's shelf,
stopped sideways as if reflecting (?) as a poet should;
and having gained my attention, and
banished all this mindstuff with the tiniest of miracles,
requires of me, I think, that I respond to it:
it's brown on top, delineated by the neatest line of darker brown
with white below, as if carries its own ghost underslung
in some metaphysical memento mori like
a poem by John Donne; memento mori too
to the mind that automates those slightly crepey hands
that busily misspell this communique from the ground
of life.
and now, that required of me,
it sets off along the edge of the shelf, and
going left, the second back of its four left legs
like some ballerina-explorer,
extended over and down the edge with delicate, sensitive,
confident grace; and having reached and turned the corner,
goes down, then has a change of mind (?) :
that tiny computer, provided by that enterprise called Nature
has had what we might call a thought...
and now its pace has accelerated, as if
some anxiety afflicts it; as if
there's somewhere else now that it should be,
and I am pathetically, uselessly
disturbed, concerned...
for what am I to the world
and world to me,
if I know so so little
about these little things;
so vague
about the great?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I've done some music for films and I really enjoy doing it.
Improvising things is always changing. A lot of momentum.
Come to think of it, the way I play is like a drum machine- very mechanical.
With a rock band, you play the same things over and over and over.
Because it's dance music, you can't really have a lot of changing in there. It's really not for me because there's too much repetition. I like more diversity.