tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post3722124243482564084..comments2024-03-29T05:41:35.119-07:00Comments on Graphic Firing Table: The Guns Fall SilentFDChiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10607785969510234092noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-82580601320181023062012-11-14T14:09:38.572-07:002012-11-14T14:09:38.572-07:00Chief...you misery of heart-sickness has company, ...Chief...you misery of heart-sickness has company, believe me.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-32856057765727350202012-11-14T12:46:56.346-07:002012-11-14T12:46:56.346-07:00gruff, and Labrys; For these, much thanks, for it ...gruff, and Labrys; For these, much thanks, for it is bitter cold and I am sick at heart...FDChiefhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10607785969510234092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-43039037300732211752012-11-14T12:46:10.277-07:002012-11-14T12:46:10.277-07:00Lisa: For the U.S. this day is almost completely u...Lisa: For the U.S. this day is almost completely unconnected with any sort of historical association. That's a feature, not a bug; Memorial Day was originally "Decoration Day", when the living decorated the graves of the Civil War dead. The present Veterans Day is a sort of generic "Support the Troops" day where it has any sort of meaning whatsoever - which I'd observe in these days of nearly-universal avoidance of military service is very small and superficial.<br /><br />But the Europeans and the British in particular retain the connection between the Eleventh of November and the great killing of the Great War. The poppies and the works of men like Owen and Sassoon still strike deep in the collective memories of the people whose sons died in job lots at Loos and the Somme.<br /><br />Hence the poppies, and the point of my post.FDChiefhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10607785969510234092noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-41663145729326955782012-11-12T11:31:27.626-07:002012-11-12T11:31:27.626-07:00It is hard to know how to "celebrate" th...It is hard to know how to "celebrate" this day. But yes, Wilfred Owen said it well enough for me.<br /><br />And at some point, I will watch a Welsh language film on my computer....it is called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedd_Wyn" rel="nofollow">"Heddwyn"</a> and portrays a Welshman, a poet, sent to that war. It is lyrical and heartbreaking. <br /><br />Cathartic weeping might just do it for me.Syrbal/Labryshttp://www.herlanderwalking.wordpress.comnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-24858260133500962492012-11-12T11:10:24.823-07:002012-11-12T11:10:24.823-07:00Chief,
I will always defer to your immense milita...Chief,<br /><br />I will always defer to your immense military and historical knowledge, but aren't the poppies more appropriate for Memorial Day? This day is not for the dead, but the living (said knowing that death is indwelling in life.)<br /><br />Your sentiment that the living veterans may have something more to tell us beyond glory is certainly valid, though, as Wilfred Owen et. al. have done.Lisahttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08839236994990699117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-47415596426833270442012-11-12T09:38:51.866-07:002012-11-12T09:38:51.866-07:00Chief,
well said,
jimChief,<br />well said,<br />jimrangeragainstwarhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02126542922536584950noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31246093.post-91968976496690258012012-11-11T21:58:23.335-07:002012-11-11T21:58:23.335-07:00Wilfred Owen
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, li...Wilfred Owen<br />Dulce Et Decorum Est<br /><br />Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,<br />Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,<br />Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs<br />And towards our distant rest began to trudge.<br />Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots<br />But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;<br />Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots<br />Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.<br /><br />GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,<br />Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;<br />But someone still was yelling out and stumbling<br />And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--<br />Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light<br />As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.<br /><br />In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,<br />He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.<br /><br />If in some smothering dreams you too could pace<br />Behind the wagon that we flung him in,<br />And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,<br />His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;<br />If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood<br />Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,<br />Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud<br />Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--<br />My friend, you would not tell with such high zest<br />To children ardent for some desperate glory,<br />The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est<br />Pro patria mori.gruffnoreply@blogger.com