Thursday, September 29, 2011
Sept 29, 2011
Today we almost finished reading chapter seven in All Quiet. Please complete reading this chapter for homework. On Friday, Mrs. Halliday will be asking you to write about the alienation, isolation and dislocation Paul feels while on leave. I would like you to think of this "journal" as being more in the style of an expository essay, given that I want four or five paragraphs and I'd like you to use several references or quotes from chapter seven. You may also write about the injustice and the justice that Paul encounters while on leave and how that adds to the sense of alienation from society and from his own past life before the war.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Sept 20, 2011
Sept 20, 2011
Classical Roots Test One Format: TEST ON FRIDAY, Sept 23rd.
Section One: Spelling (10)
Section Two: Definitions given, words to be supplied. (10)
Section Three: Use words in appropriate sentence by filling in the blank. (10)
Section Four: Matching prefixes and suffixes with their definitions (16)
Monday, September 19, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Sept 16, 2011
Complete Journal on chapter five of All Quiet on the Western Front.
dialectical (die-uh-LEKT-i-cul), n. : the art or practice of arriving at the truth through logical arguments.
journal (JUHR-nul), n. : a personal record of events, experiences, and reflections kept on a regular basis; a diary.
Procedure
* Journals are evaluated on the quality of your response.
* Select at least two passages for each chapter.
* Select passages that YOU WANT to write about.
* Write a detailed response to each passage you have chosen.
* Simply read, think, and write as much as you can.
* Always be sincere about what you are saying in your writing.
* If you get stuck, use the following list to help you get started.
WRITE ABOUT: what you like, what you dislike, what seems confusing, what seems unusual, what you think something means, what personal connections you make, what predictions you can pose. Possible sentence lead-ins might begin like:
* I really don't understand this because. . .
* I really like/dislike this idea because. . .
* This idea/event seems to be important because. . .
* I think the author is trying to say that . . .
* This passage reminds me of a time in my life when . . .
* If I were (name of character), at this point I would . . .
* This part doesn't make sense because . . .
* This character reminds me of (name of person) because . . .
What is a Dialectical Journal?
A dialectical journal is a journal that records a dialogue, or conversation, between the ideas in the text (the words that you are reading) and the ideas of the reader (the person who is doing the reading). This is what you must do in your journal—keep a dialogue with yourself. In your journal, have a conversation with the text and with yourself. Write down your thoughts, questions, insights, and ideas while you read. A dialectical journal can include all sorts of things: class notes, notes on discussions, reactions to readings. The important part is that you, the reader, are reading something and then responding to it with your feelings and ideas!dialectical (die-uh-LEKT-i-cul), n. : the art or practice of arriving at the truth through logical arguments.
journal (JUHR-nul), n. : a personal record of events, experiences, and reflections kept on a regular basis; a diary.
Procedure
* Journals are evaluated on the quality of your response.
* Select at least two passages for each chapter.
* Select passages that YOU WANT to write about.
* Write a detailed response to each passage you have chosen.
* Simply read, think, and write as much as you can.
* Always be sincere about what you are saying in your writing.
* If you get stuck, use the following list to help you get started.
WRITE ABOUT: what you like, what you dislike, what seems confusing, what seems unusual, what you think something means, what personal connections you make, what predictions you can pose. Possible sentence lead-ins might begin like:
* I really don't understand this because. . .
* I really like/dislike this idea because. . .
* This idea/event seems to be important because. . .
* I think the author is trying to say that . . .
* This passage reminds me of a time in my life when . . .
* If I were (name of character), at this point I would . . .
* This part doesn't make sense because . . .
* This character reminds me of (name of person) because . . .
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Sept 13, 2011
In class today we learned about rhyme scheme and used this poem as an example:
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know. a
His house is in the village though; a
He will not see me stopping here b
To watch his woods fill up with snow. a
My little horse must think it queer b
To stop without a farmhouse near b
Between the woods and frozen lake c
The darkest evening of the year. b
He gives his harness bells a shake c
To ask if there is some mistake. c
The only other sound's the sweep d
Of easy wind and downy flake. c
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. d
But I have promises to keep, d
And miles to go before I sleep, d
And miles to go before I sleep. d
His house is in the village though; a
He will not see me stopping here b
To watch his woods fill up with snow. a
My little horse must think it queer b
To stop without a farmhouse near b
Between the woods and frozen lake c
The darkest evening of the year. b
He gives his harness bells a shake c
To ask if there is some mistake. c
The only other sound's the sweep d
Of easy wind and downy flake. c
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. d
But I have promises to keep, d
And miles to go before I sleep, d
And miles to go before I sleep. d
Monday, September 12, 2011
more WWI poetry
Your battle-wounds are scars upon my heart, Received when in that grand and tragic
"show" You played your part Two years ago,
And silver in the summer morning sun I see the symbol of your courage glow- That
Cross you won Two years ago,
Though now again you watch the shrapnel fly, And hear the guns that daily louder
grow, As in July Two years ago,
May you endure to lead the last advance And with your men pursue the flying foe As
once in France Two years ago.
THE SISTERS BURIED AT
O Golden Isle set in the deep blue Ocean, With purple shadows flitting o'er thy crest, I kneel to thee in reverent devotion Of some who on thy bosom lie at rest!
Seldom they enter into song or story; Poets praise the soldier's might and deeds of War, But few exalt the Sisters, and the glory Of women dead beneath a distant star.
No armies threatened in that lonely station, They fought not fire or steel or ruthless foe, But heat and hunger, sickness and privation, And Winter's deathly chill and blinding snow.
Till mortal frailty could endure no longer Disease's ravages and climate's power, In body weak, but spirit ever stronger, Courageously they stayed to meet their hour.
No blazing tribute through the wide world flying, No rich reward of sacrifice they craved, The only meed of their victorious dying Lives in the heart of humble men they saved.
Who when in light the Final Dawn is breaking, Still faithfull, though the world's regard may cease, Will honour, splendid in triumphant waking, The souls of women, lonely here at peace.
O golden Isle with purple shadows falling Across thy rocky shore and sapphire sea, I shall not picture these without recalling The sisters sleeping on the heart of thee!
by Vera Brittain
Wilfred Owen
At a Calvary Near The Ancre
One ever hangs where shelled roads part.
In this war He too lost a limb,
But His disciples hide apart;
And now the Soldiers bear with Him.
In this war He too lost a limb,
But His disciples hide apart;
And now the Soldiers bear with Him.
Near Golgotha strolls many a priest,
And in their faces there is pride
That they were flesh-marked by the Beast
By whom the gentle Christ's denied.
And in their faces there is pride
That they were flesh-marked by the Beast
By whom the gentle Christ's denied.
The scribes on all the people shove
And bawl allegiance to the state,
But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life; they do not hate.
And bawl allegiance to the state,
But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life; they do not hate.
Sept 12, 2011
Chapter Three vocabulary words: All Quiet on the Western Front:
patronize | 36 |
reminiscence | 42 |
disgruntle | 43 |
canteen | 38 |
retaliate | 46 |
Friday, September 9, 2011
sep 9, 2011
Choose two poems you wish to analyze for your Poetry Assignment. Then choose two alternates in case you don't get to do your first choices.
The Great War Poetry Assignment:
Until the outbreak of World War Two, the First World War was known as The Great War. Soldiers went off to war believing they were fighting the "war to end all wars." They were fighting the first war waged with armies supplied with machine guns and artilliary. While machine guns were used in the conquest of Africa by European imperial powers, Africans could only fight back with bows and arrows and spears. When Europeans turned their machine guns upon one another, warfare was forever changed. The horrors of trench warfare quickly displaced the romantic, valourous and honourable ideals of warfare of the young men who had eagerly enlisted.
World War One was the first total war. It was a war that required the mobilization of entire nations to fight it. An entire generation who went to war, in many senses, felt betrayed by the previous generation who had sent them to war, a war that became an apparently senseless slaughter. Many of these young men wrote home, wrote diaries and journals, wrote bereavement letters to the families of their dead comrades, and composed poetry, expressing their varied views about the war, based on their personal experiences. Like the book All Quiet on the Western Front, these poems were written not just to exorcise the demons of the trenches, but to make the public aware of the incomprehensible experiences of the soldiers.
Robert Owen wrote that his poetry was "not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them." He wrote that his subject was war, and that "all a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful." So in this assignment we will be looking into the meaning and message of the poems written by the poets who found themselves in the trenches of World War One. We will look at the lives and deaths of the poets and their friends and how the events of the war impacted their writing. We will try to imagine through our research into the poets and their poetry what it was like to experience World War One. Would we have been supporters of the war, cheerfully enlisting, or would we have been pacifists? Would our opinions have changed if we had discovered the nature of this new type of warfare? And with application to our lives in Canada today, should Canada
Assignment:
1. Choose two shorter poems, or one long one to analyze. Poems to choose from are available for you on pcshwk.blogspot.com.
-analyze poem's meter and rhyme scheme
-analyze meaning
-identify poem's message or purpose
-put poem into poet's context if possible
-what did you learn about WWI from this poet?
2. Research the poet's life and experience in World War One.
-apply this information to your analysis
3. Present your analysis to the class, using powerpoint.
-powerpoint presentation of poem's text
-include photos or paintings or drawings to illustrate the poems you are analyzing. There are many image resources available on the web.
-include author bio in powerpoint
-use flash cards as memory aids for the text of your speech to the class.
-I expect you to use approximately five minutes to present your speech to class.
Grading:
Speech: 25
Powerpoint: 25
Total: /50
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Sept 8 2011
Pretend you are Kemmerich dying in the hospital bed. Paul is sitting beside you. Explain why you are crying, why you don't want to die. Use your imagination to enlarge upon this event in the book. Length: half page of writing.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wed sept 7
HWK: Finish reading chapter one of All Quiet. Make a list of words that are new to you in this chapter. This should take about 20 minutes. If you have time, find some definitions for your words. You should note that there is a useful list of All Quiet vocabulary on this blog...
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Charles Sorley
When You see Millions of the mouthless Dead
When you see millions of the mouthless deadAcross your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, 'They are dead.' Then add thereto,
'Yet many a better one has died before.'
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.
Charles Sorley (1895-1915)
Seigfried Sassoon
Aftermath
Have you forgotten yet?. . .For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
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.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench--
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?"
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack--
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?. . .
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.
March 1919
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
Banishment
I am banished from the patient men who fight.They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.
Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side,
They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light.
Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight
They went arrayed in honour. But they died,--
Not one by one: and mutinous I cried
To those who sent them out into the night.
The darkness tells how vainly I have striven
To free them from the pit where they must dwell
In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven
By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel.
Love drives me back to grope with them through hell;
And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.
Craiglockhart 1917(Siegfried Sassoon, 1886-1967)
Dreamers
Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and pictures shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.
Craiglockhart 1917Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
Enemies
He stood alone in some queer sunless placeWhere Armegedoon ends. Perhaps he longed
For days he might have lived; but his young face
Gazed forth untroubled: and suddenly there thronged
Round him the hulking Germans that I shot
When for his death my brooding rage was hot.
He stared at them, half-wondering; and then
They told him how I'd killed them for his sake --
Those pateint, stupid, sullen ghosts of men;
And still there seemed no answer he could make.
At last he turned and smiled. One took his hand
Because his face could make them understand.
6 January 1917Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
SICK LEAVE
When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,--They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead.
While the dim charging breakers of the storm
Bellow and drone and rumble overhead,
Out of the gloom they gather about my bed.
They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine.
"Why are you hear with all you watches ended?
From
In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;
And while the dawn begins with slashing rain
I think of the Battalion in the mud.
"When are you going out to them again?
Are they not still your brothers through our blood?"
Craiglockhart 1917
(Siegfried Sassoon, 1886-1967)
The One-Legged Man
Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald;Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls;
A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stalked field,
And sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls.
And he'd come home again to find it more
Desirable than ever it was before.
How right it seemed that he should reach the span
Of comfortable years allowed to man!
Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife,
Safe with his wound, a citizen of life.
He hobbled blithely through the garden gate,
And thought: "Thank God they had to amputate!"
August 1916
(Siegfried Sassoon, 1886-1967)
Isaac Rosenberg
Break of Day in the Trenches The darkness crumbles away.It is the same old druid Time as ever, Only a live thing leaps my hand, A queer sardonic rat As I pull the parapet's poppy To stick behind my ear. Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies. Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between. It seems you inwardly grin as you pass Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes, Less chanced than you for life, Bonds to the whims of murder, Sprawled in the bowels of the earth, The torn fields of France. What do you see in our eyes At the shrieking iron and flame Hurled through still heavens? What quaver -- what heart aghast? Poppies whose roots are in man's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe -- Just a little white with the dust. June 1916Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918) Dead Man's Dump The plunging limbers over the shattered trackRacketed with their rusty freight, Stuck out like many crowns of thorns, And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear. The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not, though their bones crunched, Their shut mouths made no moan. They lie there huddled, friend and foeman, Man born of man, and born of woman, And shells go crying over them From night till night and now. Earth has waited for them, All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay: Now she has them at last! In the strength of their strength Suspended--stopped and held. What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit? Earth! have they gone into you! Somewhere they must have gone, And flung on your hard back Is their soul's sack Emptied of God-ancestralled essences. Who hurled them out? Who hurled? None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass, Or stood aside for the half used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth, When the swift iron burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth. What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre, Walk, our usual thoughts untouched, Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed, Immortal seeming ever? Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us, A fear may choke in our veins And the startled blood may stop. The air is loud with death, The dark air spurts with fire, The explosions ceaseless are. Timelessly now, some minutes past, These dead strode time with vigorous life, Till the shrapnel called 'An end!' But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home, Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts. Maniac Earth! Howling and flying, your bowel Seared by the jagged fire, the iron love, The impetuous storm of savage love. Dark Earth! dark Heavens! swinging in chemic smoke, What dead are born when you kiss each soundless soul With lightening and thunder from your mined heart, Which man's self dug, and his blind fingers loosed? A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's face; His shook shoulders slipped their load, But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deep For human tenderness. They left this dead with the older dead, Stretched at the cross roads. Burnt black by strange decay Their sinister faces lie, The lid over each eye, The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they, Joined to the great sunk silences. Here is one not long dead; His dark hearing caught our far wheels, And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said, The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light, Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break, Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight. Will they come? Will they ever come? Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules, The quivering-bellied mules, And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight. So we crashed round the bend, We heard his weak scream, We heard his very last sound, And our wheels grazed his dead face. Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918) |
Wilfred Owen
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 goodbyes.
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.
September-October 1917
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
DISABLED
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Dulce et decorum est
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 tried, 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.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Spring Offensive
Halted against the shade of a last hill,
They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease
And, finding comfortable chest and knees
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge;
For though the summer oozed into their veins
Like the injected drug for their bones' pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.
Hour after hour they ponder in the warm field —
And the far valley behind, where the buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up.
When even the little brambles would not yield,
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands;
They breathe like trees unstirred.
Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste —
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun, —
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.
So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; and soft sudden cups
Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.
But what say such as from existence' brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink,
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiend and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames —
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder —
Why speak they not of comrades that went under?
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Strange Meeting
It seemed that out of battle I escapedDown some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,--
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
'I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .'
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
John McCrae
In Flanders Fields
IN 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
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.
John McCrae (1872-1918)
A E Housman
LVI
THE DAY OF 'FAR I hear the bugle blow
To call me where I would not go,
And the guns begin the song,
"Soldier, fly or stay for long."
'Comrade, if to turn and fly
Made a soldier never die,
Fly I would, for who would not?
'Tis sure no pleasure to be shot.
'But since the man that runs away
Lives to die another day,
And cowards' funerals, when they come,
Are not wept so well at home,
'Therefore, though the best is bad,
Stand and do the best, my lad;
Stand and fight and see your slain,
And take the bullet in your brain.'
A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
XXXV
ON the idle hill of summer,Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.
East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.
Far the calling bugles hollo,
High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
Woman bore me, I will rise.
A. E. Housman (1859-1936)
W W Gibson
A Lament
We who are left, how shall we look againHappily on the sun, or feel the rain,
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly, and spent
Their all for us, loved, too, the sun and rain?
A bird upon the rain-wet lilac sings--
But we, how shall we turn to little things
And listen to the birds and winds and streams
Made holy by their dreams,
Nor feel the heartbreak in the heart of things?
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962)
The Going
(To The Memory of Rupert Brooke)
He's gone.(To The Memory of Rupert Brooke)
I do not understand.
I only know
That as he turned to go
And waved his hand
In his young eyes a sudden glory shone:
And I was dazzled by a sunset glow,
And he was gone.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962)
Ivor Gurney
The Silent One Who died on the wires, and hung there, one of two --Who for his hours of life had chattered through Infinite lovely chatter of Bucks accent: Yet faced unbroken wires; stepped over, and went A noble fool, faithful to his stripes -- and ended. But I weak, hungry, and willing only for the chance Of line -- to fight in the line, lay down under unbroken Wires, and saw the flashes and kept unshaken, Till the politest voice -- a finicking accent, said: ‘Do you think you might crawl through there: there's a hole.' Darkness, shot at: I smiled, as politely replied -- ‘I'm afraid not, Sir.' There was no hole no way to be seen Nothing but chance of death, after tearing of clothes. Kept flat, and watched the darkness, hearing bullets whizzing -- And thought of music -- and swore deep heart's oaths (Polite to God) and retreated and came on again, Again retreated -- a second time faced the screen. Ivor Gurney (1890-1937) |
To his Love
He's gone, and all our plansAre useless indeed.
We'll walk no more on Cotswold
Where the sheep feed
Quietly and take no heed.
His body that was so quick
Is not as you
Knew it, on
Under the blue
Driving our small boat through.
You would not know him now...
But still he died
Nobly, so cover him over
With violets of pride
Purple from
Cover him, cover him soon!
And with thick-set
Masses of memoried flowers-
Hide that red wet
Thing I must somehow forget.
Ivor Gurney (1890-1937)
Julian Grenfell
INTO The naked earth is warm with Spring,And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight; And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run, And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their high comradeship, The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven, Orion's Belt and sworded hip. The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend, They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges' end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him 'Brother,brother, 'If this be the last song you shall sing 'Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing'. In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him the nobler powers; O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only Joy of Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind. Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings. 29 April 1915Julian Grenfell (1888-1915) |
Robert Graves
GOLIATH AND DAVID(For Lieut. David Thomas, 1st Batt. Royal Welch Fusiliers, killed at Fricourt, March, 1916) | |
| |
Siegfried Sassoon was also a close friend of fellow officer David Thomas, and Sassoon's poem "Enemies" was probably inspired by his death. |
Sorley's Weather
When outside the icy rainComes leaping helter-skelter,
Shall I tie my restive brain
Snugly under shelter?
Shall I make a gentle song
Here in my firelit study,
When outside the winds blow strong
And the lanes are muddy?
With old wine and drowsy meats
Am I to fill my belly?
Shall I glutton here with Keats?
Shall I drink with Shelley?
Tobacco's pleasant, firelight's good:
Poetry makes both better.
Clay is wet and so is mud,
Winter rains are wetter.
Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill,
For though the winds come frorley
I'm away to the rain-blown hill
And the ghost of Sorley.
Robert Graves (1895-1985)
James Griffith Fairfax
The Forest of the Dead by James Griffyth Fairfax Edit
There are strange trees in that pale field
Of barren soil and bitter yield:
They stand without the city walls;
Their nakedness is unconcealed.
Cross after cross, mound after mound,
And no flowers blossom but are bound
The dying and the dead, in the wreaths
Sad crowns for kings of Underground.
The forest of the dead is still
No song of birds can ever thrill
Among the sapless boughs that bear
No fruit, no flower, for good or ill.
The sun by day, the moon by night
Give terrible or tender light,
But day or night, the forest stands
Unchanging, desolately bright.
With loving or unloving eye
Kinsman and alien pass them by:
Do the dead know, do the dead care,
Under the forest as they lie?
To each the tree above his head.
To each the sign in which is said…..
‘by this thou art to overcome’:
Under this forest sleep no dead.
These, having life, gave life away:
Is God less generous than they?
The spirit passes and is free:
Dust too the dust; Death takes the clay.
Of barren soil and bitter yield:
They stand without the city walls;
Their nakedness is unconcealed.
Cross after cross, mound after mound,
And no flowers blossom but are bound
The dying and the dead, in the wreaths
Sad crowns for kings of Underground.
The forest of the dead is still
No song of birds can ever thrill
Among the sapless boughs that bear
No fruit, no flower, for good or ill.
The sun by day, the moon by night
Give terrible or tender light,
But day or night, the forest stands
Unchanging, desolately bright.
With loving or unloving eye
Kinsman and alien pass them by:
Do the dead know, do the dead care,
Under the forest as they lie?
To each the tree above his head.
To each the sign in which is said…..
‘by this thou art to overcome’:
Under this forest sleep no dead.
These, having life, gave life away:
Is God less generous than they?
The spirit passes and is free:
Dust too the dust; Death takes the clay.
Written in Mesopotamia
Australian
Rupert Brooke
III. The Dead
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
IV. The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movements, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Rupert Brooke
V. The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
Friday, September 2, 2011
Alphabetical Vocabulary List for All Quiet on the Western Front
DESCRIPTION:
a state or condition markedly different from the norm
strong and sharp;"the pungent taste of radishes"
diffusing warmth and friendliness
lacking vigor or energy
destruction by annihilating something
a sudden loss of consciousness resulting when the rupture or occlusion of a blood vessel leads to oxygen lack in the brain
a ghostly appearing figure
evaluate or estimate the nature, quality, ability, extent, or significance of
a state of peace agreed to between opponents so they can discuss peace terms
desiring or striving for recognition or advancement
attribute or credit to
someone who acts or responds in a mechanical or apathetic way
lodge in barracks
the rapid and continuous delivery of linguistic communication (spoken or written)
unworthiness by virtue of lacking higher values
be a mystery or bewildering to
a short personal letter
anemic looking from illness or emotion
an informal term for a British policeman
an archaic term for a boundary
the center of the Earth
(of a woman's body) having a large bosom and pleasing curves
a flask for carrying water; used by soldiers or travelers
with unflagging resolve
a volatile liquid haloform (CHCl3); formerly used as an anesthetic
a morbid fear of being closed in a confined space
separate or cut with a tool, such as a sharp instrument
a stock or supply of foods
something (such as money) given or received as payment or reparation (as for a service or loss or injury)
steadiness of mind under stress
injury to the brain caused by a blow; usually resulting in loss of consciousness
an expression of strong disapproval; pronouncing as wrong or morally culpable
be confusing or perplexing to; cause to be unable to think clearly
become gelatinous
returning to health after illness or debility
make someone convulse with laughter
attractive especially by means of smallness or prettiness or quaintness
corrupt morally or by intemperance or sensuality
state of violent mental agitation
free of lice
destroy completely
reason by deduction; establish by deduction
morally reprehensible
poor enough to need help from others
the state of being decayed or destroyed
destroy completely
mark as different
cause to feel embarrassment
put into a bad mood or into bad humour
successful conjecture by unusual insight or good luck
like down or as soft as down
an infection of the intestines marked by severe diarrhea
cause to grow thin or weak
an intricate trap that entangles or ensnares its victim
the spirit of a group that makes the members want the group to succeed
move out of an unsafe location into safety
add details, as to an account or idea; clarify the meaning of and discourse in a learned way, usually in writing
giving careful attention to detail; hard to please; excessively concerned with cleanliness
a period of fourteen consecutive days
necrotic tissue; a mortified or gangrenous part or mass
all the people living at the same time or of approximately the same age
look at with a fixed gaze
bite or chew on with the teeth
causing fear or anxiety by threatening great harm
informal terms for a meal
the flow of blood from a ruptured blood vessel
impinge or infringe upon
poor enough to need help from others
a positive motivational influence
make furious
devoid of feeling and consciousness and animation
defiance of authority
uncertain how to act or proceed
a bag carried by a strap on your back or shoulder
in a dry laconic manner
a public toilet in a military area
in a lofty manner
a large low horse-drawn wagon without sides
wingless usually flattened bloodsucking insect parasitic on warm-blooded animals
having the nature of or resulting from malice
tediously repetitious or lacking in variety
open land usually with peaty soil covered with heather and bracken and moss
an alkaloid narcotic drug extracted from opium; a powerful, habit-forming narcotic used to relieve pain
weapons considered collectively
weapons considered collectively
talk indistinctly; usually in a low voice
upset and make nauseated
slanting or inclined in direction or course or position--neither parallel nor perpendicular nor right-angled
a sudden and severe onset of trouble
having a play of lustrous rainbow colors
expel from a community or group
relating to or being a palace
abnormally deficient in color as suggesting physical or emotional distress
a low wall along the edge of a roof or balcony
(used of behavior or attitude) characteristic of those who treat others with condescension
soft light-colored non-durable wood of the poplar
done with very great haste and without due deliberation
most frequent or common
extend out or project in space
shake with fast, tremulous movements
an army officer who provides clothing and subsistence for troops
a line of people or vehicles waiting for something
shake with fast, tremulous movements
the food allowance for one day (especially for service personnel)
a mental impression retained and recalled from the past
rejecting or disowning or disclaiming as invalid
put down by force or intimidation
the act of requiring; an authoritative request or demand, especially by a military or public authority that takes something over (usually temporarily) for military or public use
take revenge for a perceived wrong
the repetition of a sound resulting from reflection of the sound waves
luggage consisting of a small case with a flat bottom and (usually) a shoulder strap
flee; take to one's heels; cut and run
to cause to separate and go in different directions
any of various strong liquors especially a Dutch spirit distilled from potatoes
collect or look around for (food)
a minor short-term fight
the killing of animals (as for food)
the feeling of distress and disbelief that you have when something bad happens accidentally
showing a brooding ill humor
serving no useful purpose; having no excuse for being
marked by quiet and caution and secrecy; taking pains to avoid being observed
a convex shape that narrows toward a point
so lacking in interest as to cause mental weariness
work hard
(of the voice) quivering as from weakness or fear
an enveloping or covering membrane or layer of body tissue
impossible to achieve
not making concessions
expose to cool or cold air so as to cool or freshen
excessive desire to eat
in a wrathful manner
performs some wicked deed
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