Anthem For Doomed Youth
[ music: john lombardo/lyric: john lombardo adapts wilfred owen ]
For whom the bells toll
When sentenced to die
The stuttering rifles
Will stifle the cry
The monstrous anger
The fears rapid rattle
A desert inferno
Kids dying like cattle
Dont tell me
Were not prepared
Ive seen todays marine
Hes eighteen and hes eager
He can be quite mean
No mockries for them
No prayers or bells
The demented choirs
The wailing of shells
The boys holding candles
On untraveled roads
The fear spreads like fire
As shrapnel explodes
I think its wrong
To conscript our youth
Against their will
When plenty of our citizenry
Really like to kill
What sign posts will lead
To armageddons fires
What bugles will call them
From crowded grey shires
The women sit quiet
With death on their minds
A slow dusk descending
The drawing of blinds
Make the hunters all line up
Its their idea of fun
And let those be forgiven
Who never owned a gun
Was it him or me
Or the wailing of the dead
The laughing soldiers
Cast their lots
And you can cut the dread
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Anthem For Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
poem by Wilfred Owen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Longest Night
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
(wilfred owen, 1918)
Now the day has run
When the cover comes
But any fool can see
Ahead
Silence is my friend
But it has to end
Any fool can see
Ahead
Its the longest night
Its the longest night
Cold winds may blow
On the longest night
So we write our letters
To those far away
Any fool can see
Ahead
The distant sound of thunder
A choir of wailing shells
Any fool can see
Ahead
Its the longest night
Its the longest night
Cold winds may blow
On the longest night
I dont want to fight
I dont know whos right
Cold winds they blow
On this longest night
Its the longest night
Its the longest night
Cold winds may blow
On this longest night
Music & lyrics by: geoff downes, john payne & ben woolfenden
song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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But I Was Looking at the Permanent Stars
Bugles sang, saddening the evening air,
And bugles answered, sorrowful to hear.
Voices of boys were by the river-side.
Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.
The shadow of the morrow weighed on men.
Voices of old despondency resigned,
Bowed by the shadow of the morrow, slept.
( ) dying tone
Of receding voices that will not return.
The wailing of the high far-travelling shells
And the deep cursing of the provoking ( )
The monstrous anger of our taciturn guns.
The majesty of the insults of their mouths.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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National Anthem For A Doomed Nation
With passing years for the nation that dies without battle;
Only the artificial fire of the rusted guns,
Only the faltering and false words’ rapid rattle,
Can nurse out only false and unachievable illusions.
All laugh at, for her; no neither love nor holy bells;
Nor any loyal voice of mourners for martyrs,
The cry, pain and demented elegy of empty shells;
And leaders laughing at, from corrupted sad shires.
O God! Lit the lamps to flee the evil roll,
Not in the hands of traitors, but in their heart and eyes;
Must flow the bright glimmers of good ties,
The joy of masses’ brows ought to be their call;
The flowers of sweetness and joy set in minds,
And each sick vibes flee down of finds.
poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
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Sonnet. Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,--
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
Into oblivion; -- that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Keats
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Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Keats
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With Bells On
Ill be home with bells on
Ill be home with bells on
Trim the tree and wrap the presents turn the christmas music on
This christmas Ill be home with bells on
Ive traveled around this country crossed the waters deep and wide
Made lots of friends and memories brought joy to others lives
Its christmas time again another year has come and gone
And I cant keep from wonderin how the old folks are at home
Ill be home with bells on
Ill be home with bells on
Trim the tree and wrap the presents turn the christmas music on
This christmas Ill be home with bells on
When the snow is on the meadow and the sleigh bells jingle bright
And the kids are singing jingle bells around the christmas lights
As daddy stokes the fire and mama puts the turkey on
There aint nothing going to slow me down this christmas Ill be home
Ill be home with bells on
Ill be home with bells on
Trim the tree and wrap the presents turn the christmas music on
This christmas Ill be home with bells on
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Death, My Final Part
A tower grim; a glowering darkness,
And only brown of red the other hue
– I saw it in the distant eyes –
And yes, He knew, but focussed only
On the mortal soul of mine –
After all, He had a role to play,
And wine: my shivering blood to quaff!
If only I could Him betray –
To break the seal of destiny;
Escape the lone cacophony
That emanates from wailing minds!
Damn the fate of His – it awes and blinds!
But oh! the mighty hammer strikes a toll;
The slow approach of Him upon the knoll
Commences exudation of a dying heart.
Endorsing all, I honed my final part.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death
The final part
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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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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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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When I go
When my bells toll a melancholy saddening sound
Calling the people to lend my final end their honest prayers
In some gloominess, more dreadful condolence and chilling cares
More hearking to the sermon's horrid round
Surely the mind of every man in the mourning throng is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each other tears
Are shaded in self lament too, and gnawing fears
Sending a man to the grave is not a sight of glory crowned
When the bells drum my time; I should feel a damp
The same chill I felt when passing by a grave yard; did not I know
That all creatures are dying like an out burnt lamp
That all are now praying; sighing, wailing knowing their time to go
Into oblivion will come; and by their tombs fresh flowers will scent and will grow
For most humans without the glories of immortal lasting stamp
Copy Rights 2010
All Rights reserved
I Know The Music
All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
And country bells clamouring their last appeals
Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.
Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds.
The orchestral noises of October nights
Blowing ( ) symphonetic storms
Of startled clarions ( )
Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ).
Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,
Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.
poem by Wilfred Owen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wedding Bells Are Ringing
Wedding bells are ringing in the chapel,
and I’m falling in love again.
I am remembering all the good times,
when we were man and wife.
Remembering all the days before
you left me with this lonely, lonely life.
Now wedding bells are ringing,
out for someone new.
Let’s hope that they don’t follow
the same roads as me and you.
Those roads only lead to heartaches,
each mile along the way,
so let’s hope along those roads they don’t stray.
Wedding bells are ring in the chapel,
only I wish they were for me and you.
Then we would get another chance,
of trying to make our love run true,
learning from all the mistakes
that we made before, and
end with a happy endings sign hanging from our door.
2 August 2007
poem by David Harris
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Paschandale
(SmithHarris)
In a foreign field he lay
Lonely soldier, unknown grave
On his dying words he prays
Tell the world of Paschendale
Relive all that he's been through
Last communion of his soul
Rust your bullets with his tears
Let me tell you 'bout his years
Laying low in a blood filled trench
Kill tim 'til my very own death
On my face I can feel the falling rain
Never see my friends again
In the smoke, in the mud and lead
Smell the fear and the feeling of dread
Soon be time to go over the wall
Rapid fire and the end of us all
Whistles, shouts and more gun fire
Lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
Battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
Be reunited with my dead friends soon
Many soldiers eighteen years
Drown in mud, no more tears
Surely a war no-one can win
Killing time about to begin
Home, far away
From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away
But the war, no chance to live again
The bodies of ours and our foes
The sea of death it overflows
In no man's land, God only knows
Into jaws of death we go
Crucified as if on a cross
Allied troops they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
Such before has never been seen
Swear I heard the angels cry
Pray to god no more may die
So that people know the truth
Tell the tale of Paschendale
Cruelty has a human heart
Every man does play his part
Terror of the men we kill
The human heart is hungry still
I stand my ground for the very last time
Gun is ready as I stand in line
Nervous wait for the whistle to blow
Rush of blood and over we go
Blood is falling like the rain
Its crimso
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flower-De-Luce: The Bells Of Lynn. Heard At Nahant
O curfew of the setting sun! O Bells of Lynn!
O requiem of the dying day! O Bells of Lynn!
From the dark belfries of yon cloud-cathedral wafted,
Your sounds aerial seem to float, O Bells of Lynn!
Borne on the evening wind across the crimson twilight,
O'er land and sea they rise and fall, O Bells of Lynn!
The fisherman in his boat, far out beyond the headland,
Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, O Bells of Lynn!
Over the shining sands the wandering cattle homeward
Follow each other at your call, O Bells of Lynn!
The distant lighthouse hears, and with his flaming signal
Answers you, passing the watchword on, O Bells of Lynn!
And down the darkening coast run the tumultuous surges,
And clap their hands, and shout to you, O Bells of Lynn!
Till from the shuddering sea, with your wild incantations,
Ye summon up the spectral moon, O Bells of Lynn!
And startled at the sight like the weird woman of Endor,
Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Joy-Bells
Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells
To the green-vista’d gladness of the past
That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells
To a joyful chime; but let it be the last.
What means this metal in windy belfries hung
When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells
Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue
Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells.
Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim
That ‘if our Lord returned He’d fight for us.’
So let our bells and bishops do the same,
Shoulder to shoulder with the motor-bus.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Paschendale
In a foreign field he lay
lonely soldier unknown grave
on his dying words he prays
tell the world of Paschendale
Relive all that he's been through
last communion of his soul
rust your bullets with his tears
let me tell you 'bout his years
Laying low in a blood filled trench
killing time 'til my very own death
on my face I can feel the falling rain
never see my friends again
in the smoke, in the mud and lead
smell of fear and feeling of dread
soon be time to go over the wall
rapid fire and the end of us all
Whistles, shouts and more gun fire
lifeless bodies hang on barbwire
battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
be reunited with my dead friends soon
many soldiers eighteen years
drown in mud, no more tears
surely a war no one can win
killing time about to begin
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
The bodies of ours and our foes
the sea of death it overflows
in no man's land God only knows
into jaws of death we go...
Crucified as if on a cross
allied troops, they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
such before has never been seen
swear I heard the angels cry
pray to God no more may die
so that people know the truth
tell the tale of Paschendale
Cruelty has a human heart
everyman does play his part
terror of the men we kill
the human heart is hungry still
I stand my ground for the very last time
gun is ready as I stand in line
nervous wait for the whistle to blow
rush of blood and over we go...
Blood is falling like the rain
its crimson cloak unveils again
the sound of guns can't hide their shame
and so we die in Paschendale
Dodging shrapnel and barbwire
running straight at cannon fire
running blind as I hold my breath
say a prayer symphony of death
as we charge the enemy lines
a burst of fire and we go down
I choke a cry but no one hears
feel the blood go down my throat
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
See my spirit on the wind
across the lines beyond the hill
friend and foe will meet again
those who died at Paschendale
song performed by by Iron Maiden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alf’s Second Bit
THE NEO-COMMUNE
Manhood of England,
Dougth of the Shires,
Want Russia to save 'em
And answer their prayers.
Want Russia to save 'em,
Lenin to save 'em, Trotsky to save 'em
(And valets to shave 'em)
The youth of the Shires!
Down there in Cambridge
Between auction and plain bridge,
Romance, revolution 1918!
An idea between 'em
I says! 'ave you seen 'em?
The flower of Cambridge,
The youth of the Shires?
poem by Ezra Pound
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Bells Of Christmas
The bells of christmas go ring-a-ling-ling
They toll for the savior and the peace hell bring
And little children everywhere are caroling
cause the presence of the lord makes their spirits sing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Bells are ringing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Children singing
The bells of notre dame cathedral will chime
And everywhere a princely peace
And there they light the candles up one at a time
For the ones they love at christmastime
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Bells are ringing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Children singing
The omnipresent spirit of the world will sing
That christ is born
Oh oh oh
And people of the world are all rejoicing
For the baby jesus born in nazarene
The bells of christmas go ring-a-ling-ling
They toll for the savior and the peace hell bring
And little children everywhere are caroling
cause the presence of the lord makes their spirits sing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Bells are ringing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Children singing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Bells are ringing
Oh oh oh oh
Bells of christmas
Children singing
Ah
Ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh
Ah ah ah ah
Ah ah ah ah
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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