And Just When You Thought....

....

 

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

 

W. H. Auden (1907 - 1973)

And Just When You Thought.....

 ....Pretty was objective...

This week I was impressed by the Stevie Smith poem "Pretty" that we read in class, so I went and read several of her other poems. As it turns out, many of her poems (the ones that I found anyway, and of course, in my opinion) were quite dark. However, I did find one that I would like to share, that I likewise enjoyed and found very good along with her poem "Pretty". 

Stevie Smith

Pretty

by Stevie Smith

Why is the word pretty so underrated?
In November the leaf is pretty when it falls.
The stream grows deep in the woods after rain.
And in the pretty pool the pike stalks.

He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too,
The prey escapes with an underwater flash.
But not for long, the great has him now.
The pike is a fish who always has his prey

And this is pretty. The water rat is pretty.
His paws are not webbed; he cannot shut his nostrils
As the otter can and the beaver; he is torn between
The land water. Not 'torn he does not mind.

The owl hunts in the evening, and it is pretty.
The lake water below him rustles with ice.
There is frost coming from the ground, in the air mist.
All this is pretty; it could not be prettier.

Yes, it could always be prettier, the eye abashes.
It is becoming an eye that cannot see enough,
Out of the wood the eye climbs. This is prettier.
A field in the evening, tilting up.

The field tilts to the sky. Though it is late,
The sky is lighter than the hill field.
All this looks easy, but really, it is extraordinary.
Well, it is extraordinary to be so pretty.

And it is careless, and that is always pretty.
This field, this owl, this pike, this pool are careless.
As Nature is always careless and indifferent.
Who sees, who steps, means nothing, and this is pretty.

So a person can come along like a thief-pretty!
Stealing a look, pinching the sound and feel,
Lick the icicle broken from the bank,
And still say nothing at all, only cry pretty.

Cry pretty, pretty, pretty, and you'll be able
Very soon not even to cry pretty.
And so to be delivered entirely from humanity.
This is prettiest of all, it is very pretty. 

Alone in the Woods

by Stevie Smith

Alone in the woods I felt
The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees
Nature has taught her creatures to hate
Man that fusses and fumes
Unquiet man
As the sap rises in the trees
As the sap paints the trees a violent green
So rises the wrath of Nature's creatures
At man
So paints the face of Nature a violent green.
Nature is sick at man
Sick at his fuss and fume
Sick at his agonies
Sick at his gaudy mind
That drives his body
Ever more quickly
More and more
In the wrong direction.

''But the past is just the same,—and War's a bloody game. . . .Have you forgotten yet? . . . Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.''
  - Sassoon

Invocation
   by Siegfried Sassoon

Come down from heaven to meet me when my breath
Chokes, and through drumming shafts of stifling death
I stumble toward escape, to find the door
Opening on morn where I may breathe once more
Clear cock-crow airs across some valley dim
With whispering trees. While dawn along the rim
Of night’s horizon flows in lakes of fire,
Come down from heaven’s bright hill, my song’s desire.

Belov’d and faithful, teach my soul to wake
In glades deep-ranked with flowers that gleam and shake
And flock your paths with wonder. In your gaze
Show me the vanquished vigil of my days.
Mute in that golden silence hung with green,
Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyes
Remembrance of all beauty that has been,
And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

And Just When you Thought...

...Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori...
(It is sweet and fitting/right to die for one's country)

The poem "Dulce et Decorum est"by Wilfred Owen is in my opinion one of the most moving anti-war poems I have ever read. With this work, Owen illustrates the start reality of war, and the contradictions in pro-war propaganda. Owen is known, along with his friend Siegfried Sassoon, as one of the leading English poets of the First World War. He wrote this poem during WWI, and was later killed in action on November 4, 1918.

The title of the poem comes from a line in the Roman lyrical work by Horace entitled "Odes" and was originally a poem that encouraged "Roman citizens to develop martial prowess such that the enemies of Rome, in particular the Parthians, will be too terrified to resist them." Given that knowledge, the poem by Wilfred Owen becomes even more compelling, as he clearly shows that there is nothing "sweet" or "fitting" in the horrors of war and significantly challenges the propaganda of his time.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

by 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.

To read more about Wilfred Own you can visit The Wilfred Own Collection at The First World War Digital Poetry Archive, or the Wilfred Owen page at Poets.org.