This month I chose these poems by Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen and one by an unknown author to try a show the insanity of what Wilfred Owen called the "pity of War"...

"Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery."
~ Wilfred Owen ~
Could almost be his Epitaph

I began to feel that it was a privilege to be bitter about my war experiences;
And my attitude towards civilians implied that they couldn't understand,
And it was no earthly use trying to explain things to them.
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

I was rewarded by an intense memory of men,
Whose courage had shown me the power of the human spirit,
Which could withstand the utmost assault.
Such men had inspired me to be at my best,
When things were very bad, and they outweighted all the failures.
Against the background of the War and its brutal stupidity,
Those men stood glorified,
By things which sought to destroy them...
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

Somehow the newspaper men always kept the horrifying realities
Of the War out of their articles,
For it was unpatriotic to be bitter,
And the dead were assumed to be gloriously happy.
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

Does it Matter? (September 1917)

Does it matter? - losing your legs?....
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? - losing your sight?....
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter? - those dreams from the pit?....
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For people they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

Repression of War Experience (1918)

Now light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame
No, no, not that, it’s bad to think of war,
When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you;
And it’s been proved that soldiers don’t go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,
And you’re as right as rain...
Why won’t it rain?...
I wish there’d be a thunder-storm to-night,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.
Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O do read something; they’re so wise.
I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There’s one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,
Not people killed in battle, they’re in France,
But horrible shapes in shrouds old men who died
Slow, natural deaths, old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
. . . .
You’re quiet and peaceful,
summering safe at home;
You’d never think there was a bloody war on!...
O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud, quite soft ...
they never cease
Those whispering guns O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop,I’m going crazy;
I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns.
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

A Sack

A sack was lowered into a hole in the ground,
The sack was Dick,
I knew death then.
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

For me, the idea of death made everything vivid and valuable,
The War could be like that to a man,
Until it drove him to drink and suffocated his finer apprehensions.
~ Siegfried Sassoon ~

Lead us on, 0 Lord, as the night closes in.
We ask for strength to open our eyes
and thank you once again.

Can this be for real?
Can a young man such as I
Be sent to war to kill or die?
Yes,
To keep men and country free.
~ Wilfred Owen ~

Freedom. . .
Is the soldier's cry.
We cherish it, we live it,
And for it ... would willingly die. Freedom. . .
Is the soldier's cry.
We cherish it, we live it,
And for it ... would willingly die. Freedom. . .
Is the soldier's cry.
We cherish it, we live it,
And for it ... would willingly die. Freedom. . .
Is the soldier's cry.
We cherish it, we live it,
And for it ... would willingly die.
~ Unknown ~

When I return to those I love
Let me be a little kinder.
For life's too short to be otherwise
And let this war be my reminder.
~ Wilfred Owen ~

We are Bewildered and weary,
Lonely to the point of madness,
And if we shout and curse
Through our quiet dreams,
Forgive us.
We are merely looking for a way to go home.
~ Wilfred Owen ~

You have come a long way, a world away, to sleep.
... Forgetful now for ever of the slow
Whispers of the curling water
Sifting the sand around you ...
You are a message now, forgetful, sleeping;
The idiot print of Time on the wave-washed
shore ...
The storm will pass . . .
Silence will cover it;
Sleep . . .
~ Wilfred Owen ~

We dream of things so far away
Hoping and praying we shall return some day.
~ Wilfred Owen ~

We fight each day through drenching rain,
And then through scorching heat,
We walk through the hills and valleys,
Aided only by aching feet.
When the inevitable time has come for you to
Answer the call,
Remember our fight for Freedom . . .
So our flag may never fall!
~ Wilfred Owen ~

The End

After the blast of lightning from the east,
The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,
After the drums of time have rolled and ceased
And from the bronze west long retreat is blown,

Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth
All death will he annul, all tears assuage?
Or fill these void veins full again with youth
And wash with an immortal water age?

When I do ask white Age, he saith not so,
"My head hangs weighed with snow."
And when I hearken to the Earth she saith
My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death.
Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified
Nor my titanic tears the seas be dried."
~ Wilfred Owen ~

Men are such foolish creatures and some alway think that they are more intelligent than the previous generation, thus insuring that there will be more poets and story writers.
But hasn't it always been that way?

Semper Fidelis
Ricardo