Armistice Day

That whole “War-To-End-All-Wars” stuff sadly never really seems to work out, does it?

4 Responses to “Armistice Day”

1. tree hugging sister says:

   November 11, 2014 at 7:37 pm

   Brutal. So incredibly brutal.

   Dulce et Decorum Est
   Wilfred Owen, 1893 – 1918

   Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
   Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
   Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
   And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
   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.

   Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
   Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
   But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
   And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
   Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
   As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

   In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
   He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

   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,
   Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
   Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
   My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
   To children ardent for some desperate glory,
   The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
   Pro patria mori.

2. Mr. Bingley says:

   November 12, 2014 at 7:52 am

   Indeed, Sis.

3. Kathy Kinsley says:

   November 14, 2014 at 5:54 pm

   In Flanders fields the poppies blow
   Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
   Scarce heard amid the guns below.

   We are the Dead. Short days ago
   We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie
   In Flanders fields.

   Take up our quarrel with the foe:
   To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
   We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
   In Flanders fields.

4. Kathy Kinsley says:

   November 14, 2014 at 5:58 pm

   My Grandmother lost 3 brothers to gas in WWI, THS.

   The problem with wars is that someone always starts them, and if someone else doesn’t fight back, you get that “boot stamping on a human face — forever.”