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Poems Inspired By War & Conflict

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Table of Contents IV: poetry posts 1501 - 1789 [02 Mar 2015|12:00pm]

duathir
9/6/14 - 3/31/15Collapse )

Leslie Fish, 'The Cripples' Shield-Wall' [03 Mar 2015|01:00am]

duathir
The Cripples' Shield-Wall

Consider the plight of the one-legged knight
As he braces his crutch with his shield;
He’ll stand still and wait till you come for the bait,
Then you’ll find that the bastard won’t yield!
Do you knock his one leg down, there’s still no relief,
He’ll crawl down the field with his sword in his teeth;
And the reach of his sword-arm defies all belief
Where he fights in the Cripples’ Shield-Wall.

Beware the old dame who’s arthritic and lame,
So knee-sprung she barely can stand;
But her hands and her eye are still steady and spry –
She’s the best crossbow-shot in the land!
With a repeating crossbow and war-arrow blade
She can pierce any armor that’s ever been made –
Be glad she’s not drawn to the highwayman’s trade!
She just fights in the Cripples’ Shield-Wall!

Pray do not go near the knight who can’t hear:
Though he can’t tell command-calls at all,
He reads signs from his friends, and his post he defends
With a lightning-fast seven-foot maul!
They say when it’s whirling it raises a breeze,
And the head on its chain has been known to break trees –
So when he starts swinging, the prudent man flees
Where he fights in the Cripples’ Shield-Wall!

No profit you’ll find from the knight who is blind.
He can hear you twelve paces away:
He’ll listen off-hand till he’s sure where you stand,
Then his bill-hook reaps far more than hay!
He can fight in the forest, the river, the plain,
With his hearing unhampered by dark, fog, or rain –
He must know his ground, but he’ll sure bring you pain
Where he fights in the Cripples’ Shield-Wall!

Watch out in the fight for the cripple-armed knight
Whose hand can’t swing up – only down,
For he’ll watch through the dance till he spies a good chance,
Then his downstroke will cost you your crown!
His shield-arm will raise up his sword-arm, and then
He’ll watch for a chance with his downstroke again –
You know that he’ll strike, but you never know when,
And he fights in the Cripples’ Shield-Wall!

Beware, I implore, all ye masters of war
Who prefer to draft healthy young boys;
For the blind, halt, and lame can be good at this game,
When well-placed, defending the toys.
They’ve learned their art well, and they strike hard and true –
If they’ve something to prove, then they’ll prove it on you!
The last line on Earth that you’d want to drive through,
You can swear, is the Cripples’ Shield-Wall!
Beware of the Cripples’ Shield-Wall!

By Leslie Fish
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F.W. Harvey, 'A People Renewed' [02 Mar 2015|01:00am]

duathir
A People Renewed

Now these like men shall live,
And like to princes fall.
They take what Fate will give
At this great festival.

And since at length they find
That life is sweet indeed,
They cast it on the wind
To serve their country's need.

See young "Adventure" there
("Make-money-quick" that was)
Hurls down his gods that were
For Honour and the Cross!

Old "Grab-at-Gold" lies low
In Flanders. And again
(Because men will it so)
England is ruled by Men.

by F.W. Harvey
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Rudyard Kipling, 'Song From The Mens' Side' [02 Mar 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Song From The Mens' Side

Once we feared The Beast--when he followed us we ran,
Ran very fast though we knew
It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
But what could we Flint-workers do?
The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears--
Grinned at the hammers that we made;
But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife--
And this is the Buyer of the Blade!

Room for his shadow on the grass--let it pass!
To left and right-stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!

Tyr thought hard till he hammered our a plan,
For he knew it was not right
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man;
So he went to the Children of the Night.
He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.
When he begged for the Knife they said:
"The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!"
And that was the price he paid.

Tell it to the Barrows of the Dead--run ahead!
Shout it so the Women's Side can hear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!

Our women and our little ones may walk on the Chalk,
As far as we can see them and beyond,
We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep
Tally at the shearing-pond.
We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,
We can sleep after meals in the sun,
For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,
Feet-in-the-Night have run!
Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr, aie!),
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!

Then:
Room for his shadow on the grass-let it pass!
To left and to right--stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade--be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!

by Rudyard Kipling
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Jared Leto, 'This Is War' [01 Mar 2015|01:01am]

duathir
This Is War

A warning to the people,
The good and the evil,
This is war.

To the soldier, the civilian,
The martyr, the victim,
This is war.

It's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie,
The moment to live and the moment to die,
The moment to fight, the moment to fight
To fight, to fight, to fight!

To the right, To the left
We will fight to the death!
To the edge of the earth
It's a brave new world
From the last to the first

To the right, To the left
We will fight to the death!
To the edge of the earth
It's a brave new world
It's a brave new world!

A warning to the prophet,
The liar, the honest,
This is war.

To the leader, the pariah,
The victor, the messiah,
This is war.

It's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie,
The moment to live and the moment to die,
The moment to fight, the moment to fight,
To fight, to fight, to fight!

To the right, To the left
We will fight to the death!
To the edge of the earth
It's a brave new world
From the last to the first

To the right, To the left
We will fight to the death!
To the edge of the earth
It's a brave new world
It's a brave new world
It's a brave new world!

I do believe in the light
Raise your hands into the sky
The fight is done, the war is won
Lift your hands toward the sun
Toward the sun
Toward the sun
Toward the sun
The war is won

To the right, To the left
We will fight to the death!
To the edge of the earth
It's a brave new world
From the last to the first

To the right, To the left
We will fight to the death!
To the edge of the earth
It's a brave new world
It's a brave new world
It's a brave new world!

A brave new world
The war is won
The war is won
A brave new world

By Jared Leto

http://youtu.be/Zcps2fJKuAI

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Willoughby Weaving, 'The Warrior Month' [01 Mar 2015|01:00am]

duathir
The Warrior Month

Strong March, what wonder that I think of war
When thou art triumphing across the sky
With bannered cloud and trump of victory
Bloodless, and not as our red triumphs are,
And ire thy happy conquest spreading far
The Spring's green welcome ravage, biddest fly
Those dull oppressors of the land, the sly
Old monarch Winter and his consort Care.

A happy gain to all, a loss to none!
But we, how great soe'er our triumphs be
Ever gain less than we have lost alone,
And less than even our broken enemy
Get from the thought how their brave dead have known
Nought of their country's dire calamity.

by Willoughby Weaving
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Ludwig Uhland, 'My Good Comrade' [28 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
My Good Comrade

I had a comrade.
A better one you won't find.
The battle drums were beating,
He was by my side,
In even step and stride,
In even step and stride.

A bullet came a-flying,
Was it meant for me, or you?
It struck down my comrade,
He lay at my feet,
Like a part of me.
Like a part of me.

His hand still reaches out to me
While I reload my rifle.
I cannot give you my hand,
Rest on in life eternal,
My good comrade,
My good comrade.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Original German:

Mein Guter Kamerad

Ich hatt' einen Kameraden
Einen bessern find'st du nicht,
Die Trommel schlug zum Streite,
Er ging an meiner Seite,
In gleichen Schritt und Tritt,
ln gleichen Schritt und Tritt.

Eine Kugel kam geflogen,
Gilt sie mir, oder gilt sie dir?
Ihn hat sie weggerissen,
Er liegt zu meinen Fussen,
Als war's ein Stuck von mir,
Als war's ein Stuck von mir.

Will mir die Hand noch reichen,
Derweil ich eben lad',
Kann dir die Hand nicht geben,
Bleib' du im ev'gen Leben,
Mein guter Kamerad,
Mein guter Kamerad.

By Ludwig Uhland (1787–1862)

http://youtu.be/tCQY2oGnxnE

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Charles R. Grean, 'A Visit To A Sad Planet' [27 Feb 2015|04:00pm]

duathir
A Visit To A Sad Planet
(Posted in memory of Leonard Nimoy, 3/26/31-2/27/15)

Stardate 24-34 point 2

First Officer’s log

On a routine patrol flight
In the Milky Way Galaxy
I discovered on our space-sensors
An unidentified planet careening wildly
In an eccentric solar orbit
I ordered an immediate investigation
And with much difficulty
Manoeuvred our ship for a temporary orbit

Upon beaming down to the plant's surface
All I could see were ruins
Ruins of some type of civilisation
Crumbled buildings
Deserted streets
Charred vegetation
All covered with a thick layer of dust
Which our scanners indicated as intensely radioactive

I proceeded to make a through survey of the area
According to my calculations
I could tell that some recent phenomenon or holocaust had occurred
And destroyed whatever advanced civilisation had existed on the planet
I found no sign of life

As I made my way back to the ship
I heard a sound
It came from a cellar, in one of the nearby buildings
Carefully and slowly
I found my way to the source
And discovered a human being
Or rather what once was a human being
A scarred, disfigured man lying in the rubble
When I questioned him
He told me this had once been a great world
They had abundance and plenty
Intelligence
Beauty
Love
There was enough for everyone who lived there
But the inhabitants were never satisfied
They wanted more
They wanted everything
And they started to quarrel amongst themselves
They could not live in peace
And they tried to destroy each other
In doing this they destroyed everything
Their abundance
Their plenty
Their own intelligence
Their beauty
Their love

He told me that
So far as he knew
He was the only living thing left
But that he knew he was dying
When I asked him the name of the planet
He replied
"We called it Earth."

By Charles R. Grean

http://youtu.be/zmLcp4HekUc

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Charles R. Grean, 'Amphibious Assault' [27 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Amphibious Assault
(Posted in memory of Leonard Nimoy, 3/26/31-2/27/15)

The time has come
H-hour
On the horizon many ships watch and wait
silhouetted by the soft gray light of dawn
A lone craft moves toward the enemy shore line,
sole vehicle of the assault
The craft, an amphibious landing type, has a ramp gate in the bow for the unloading of men and equipment onto the beach
At the back, above the level of the ramp gate is a large glass-enclosed structure
with a million fleece rug and cocktail lounge furnishings

A party is in progress inside the glass room
The room is swirled with heavy military bodies
Decorated with bright colored ribbons and medals
Stewards dart about with trays of ors d'oeuvres and champagne cocktails,
There is music and laughter. It is a merry party and it continues as the craft moves forward
Now the craft touches the beach pushing a wave before it
The merriment subsides for a moment, and all in the glass room look casually toward the ramp gate

The ramp goes down
A single soldier clad in combat fatigues carrying an infantry pack and rifle rushes up over the ramp gate onto the beach
The soldier runs very hard and fast

(a shot is heard)

It is over, quickly

He is killed by one shot
fired by the enemy
The soldier lies crumpled, face down, on the sand
He is the only blemish on the smoothness
Slowly the ramp gate begins to rise
The craft withdraws from the beach
The conversation and laughter in the glass room resumes

By Charles R. Grean

http://youtu.be/iUptZksKfxU

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Robert Service, 'My Prisoner' [27 Feb 2015|02:00am]

duathir
My Prisoner

We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me;
Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we;
Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was,
Fightin' fierce as fire because
It was 'im or me as must be downed;
'E was twice as big as me;
I was 'arf the weight of 'e;
We was like a terryer and a 'ound.

'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke.
Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke.
Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf!
Why, it fairly made me laugh,
'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound.
Couldn't fight for monkey nuts.
Soon I gets 'im in the guts,
There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground.

In I goes to finish up the job.
Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob;
Speakin' English good as me:
"'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e;
"Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?"
"Why, I'd like to, sir," says I;
"But -- yer knows the reason why:
If we pokes our noses out we're dead.

"Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and
(As a gent like you must understand),
If I 'olds you longer 'ere,
Wiv yer pals so werry near,
It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin;
If I lets yer go away,
Why, you'll fight another day:
See the sitooation I am in.

"Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do,
Bein' kind and seein' as it's you,
Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel
Of a 'alf a yard o' steel,
I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead;
Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . .
'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck,
Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead."

'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile!
'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while!
Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme,
Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme:
Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods.
Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure
You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ."
"In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds."

Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . .
Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do,
And to think this is the end!"
"'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend,
Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs.
Picters, statoos, is that why
You should be let off to die?
That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers."

Once again 'e seems ter think awhile.
Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile:
"Why, no, sir, it's not the best;
There's a locket next me breast,
Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue.
That's the best I've done," says 'e.
"That's me darter, aged three. . . ."
"Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too."

Straight I chucks my rifle to one side;
Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride
Me own little Mary Jane.
Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine,
And we talks as friendly as can be;
Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way,
'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day,
Wonders -- 'ow would 'e 'ave treated me?

By Robert W. Service
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Witter Bynner, 'Defeat' [27 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Defeat

On a train in Texas German prisoners eat
With white American soldiers, seat by seat,
While black American soldiers sit apart,
The white men eating meat, the black men heart.
Now, with that other war a century done,
Not the live North but the dead South has won,
Not yet a riven nation comes awake.
Whom are we fighting this time, for God's sake?
Mark well the token of the separate seat
It is again ourselves whom we defeat.

By Witter Bynner
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Rudyard Kipling, 'Tarrant Moss' [26 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Tarrant Moss

I closed and drew for my love's sake
That now is false to me,
And I slew the Reiver of Tarrant Moss
And set Dumeny free.

They have gone down, they have gone down,
They are standing all in a row--
Twenty knights in the peat-water,
That never struck a blow!

Their armour shall not dull nor rust,
Their flesh shall not decay,
For Tarrant Moss holds them in trust,
Until the Judgment Day.

Their soul went from them in their youth,
Would to God, that mine had gone,
Whenas I leaned on my love's truth
And not on my sword alone!

Whenas I leaned on lad's belief
And not on my naked blade--
I slew a thief, and an honest thief,
For the sake of a worthless maid.

They have laid the Reiver low in his place,
They have set me up on high,
But the twenty knights in the peat-water
Are luckier than I!

And ever they give me gold and praise
And ever I mourn my loss--
That I struck the blow for my false love's sake
And not for the Men of the Moss!
Not for the Men of the Moss.

by Rudyard Kipling
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Sam Hamill, 'Vigilance' [25 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Vigilance

Trees, shrubs, grass—everything
glistened in late February frost
as first rays of sunlight
filtered through the woods.
I stood at the window,
coffee mug in hand,
and watched the first spring robin
hop and scratch and eat,
scratch and eat, first under
lace-leaf maples, then
along the edge of the path
that leads out
to my studio. I watched,
for almost an hour,
a happy bird enjoy a feast.

And for an hour, I put
away all thoughts
of our president in Europe
renewing threats,
put away all thoughts of
people decimated
by a great tsunami,
or of the latest casualties
in Iraq. Enough of that.
Give me
one moment with a robin
and a sunrise,
late winter’s harsh yellow light,
and crack
of frozen gravel underfoot
as I go out to work—
frightening off the bird—

a little wonder
in a suffering world,
a little delight
in a world of pain.
And then begin again.

By Sam Hamill
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Harley Matthews, 'The Sleep of Death' [25 Feb 2015|02:00am]

duathir
The Sleep of Death

We see no terror in your eyes.
They say that sleeping you were found;
Now we with bayonets guard you round.
Night's shadow up the hillside creeps,
But you still watch the lighted skies,
Although the sentinel that sleeps
The next dawn dies.

Ah, the remorse is gone that grew
To think of what my comrade said:
"Give this to her when I am dead" -
A heart-shaped thing of little worth
That held her picture for his view,
But he was killed and in the earth
Before I knew.

It was last night. My watch I kept,
The stars just overhead shone dim.
Nought moved upon the hills' far rim.
But in the hollows shadows seethed,
And as I watched, towards me crept.
I listened: deep my comrades breathed
Where near they slept.

Below men moved innumerable -
Fancy! and yet there was a doubt.
I closed my eyes to shut them out,
And for relief drew deeper breath,
Across my lids Sleep laid his spell;
I flung it off - to sleep was death,
I knew too well.

There came a pleasant breath of air,
Cool-wafted from the stars it seemed.
I looked: now they all brightly gleamed,
Then long I watched, alert, clear-eyed.
No sleeper stirred behind me there...
Yet then of some one at my side
I grew aware.

I stared: for he stood there, though dead,
Yet looking, that seemed nothing strange;
About his form there was no change
To see within that little light.
"'Tis I. And yet you heard no tread.
A careless watch you keep to-night,"
He laughing said.

His voice no huskier had grown,
Then while I watched, he sat and told
Me of his love just as of old.
"Give this to her," I heard him say.
I looked, and found I was alone.
Within my hand the locket lay
Cold as a stone.

I have it here to prove he lies
Who says that sleeping I was found.
I fear not though you guard me round.
Night's shadow up the hillside creeps,
But I can watch the lighted skies,
Although the sentinel that sleeps
The next dawn dies.

by Harley Matthews
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Josh Doyle, 'High School Soldier' [24 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
High School Soldier

When you came to earth you belonged to us,
We raised you to think like us,
We chose you a saviour for you to believe in,
Follow orders or be damned,
We provided an education,
We told you why we were right,
Kicked you around your whole young life,
And sent you off to our war to fight,
Oh don't be ashamed,
Everyone's a pawn in someone's game,
Yeah, I'm not so brave,
Every night you're planning your escape.

High school soldier,
It's all over,
Yearbook rock-star,
Quarterback sweetheart,
High school soldier,
It's all over,
Yearbook rock-star,
High school soldier.

The rush that comes from killing,
When your neck is on the line,
Civilian life is not so thrilling,
You're best out of your mind,
And you're mortgaged off and sold,
Taking pills of many sizes,
What doesn't kill you,
Doesn't make you strong it paralyses,
Oh I'm not ashamed,
Everyone's a pawn in someone's game,
Yeah, I'm not so brave,
Everyone's a pawn in someone's game.

High school soldier,
It's all over,
Yearbook rock-star,
Quarterback sweetheart,
High school soldier,
It's all over,
Raise your glasses,
High school soldier.

And all the roads I've never tread,
All the words you've ever said,
All the visions of the dead,
Lay there warm inside your head.

By Josh Doyle
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Wilfred Owen, 'Inspection' [23 Feb 2015|02:00am]

duathir
Inspection

'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'

Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.

'Blood's dirt,' he laughed, looking away,
Far off to where his wound had bled
And almost merged for ever into clay.
'The world is washing out its stains,' he said.
'It doesn't like our cheeks so red:
Young blood's its great objection.
But when we're duly white-washed, being dead,
The race will bear Field-Marshal God's inspection.'

By Wilfred Owen
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Robert Tremmel, 'Early 21st Century' [23 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Early 21st Century

There is a naked man
sitting in his pick-up
parked on a promontory
overlooking the ocean.

He has been there
a long time, facing
west, or maybe east
with the engine running
and his foot on the gas.

From time to time
for no apparent reason
he presses
the accelerator
all the way
to the firewall
and holds it there, making
the engine scream
at majorpsychosisthreshold.

Then, maybe for days
he backs off
and just lets it idle
as clouds blow over him
and the sun either rises
or sets and the air
around him boils with exhaust.

By Robert Tremmel
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Michael Campagnoli, 'In the Bar of the Commodore' [22 Feb 2015|02:00am]

duathir
In the Bar of the Commodore

The shelling had gone on for 24 hours, but
Fouad was smiling. Coco, the parrot, was skilled
at imitating the incoming. She’d whistle and everyone
would duck.

“At least they’re not aiming at us,” I said
(I was still young then).
“That’s precisely what does worry me,” Kittredge,
the Englishman, answered.

We couldn’t get our dispatches out. We couldn’t
get anything in or out. We couldn’t get food or mail or
those Turkish cigarettes Kittredge loved. But, somehow,
the bar of the Commodore was always stocked and Fouad
always smiled. “Tonight,” he said in his broken, unctuous
English, “we ’ave BarrrBeeKew,” and smiled broadly
(a mouth full of yellowed teeth like fat golden corn).
And Coco did her act.

She was very good.
And we all ducked.

By Michael Campagnoli
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Misael Mesina Paranial, 'At The Terminal' [21 Feb 2015|02:00am]

duathir
At The Terminal

Six p.m., and the evening
traffic homeward has gone amok.
The opening salvo: an explosion

throwing rush hour into disarray,
sudden rain of shrapnel seeking
solace in warm bodies.

Days ago, the city turned out
to see who kisses the longest.
Today, kisses seemed superfluous

among the burnt dead, caught unaware
or the shell-shocked, wounded
in the aftermath of bombs

exploding everywhere:
a loaded bus, a parked tricycle,
a lone package outside a food stall.

Pressed for sound bites,
our Man in Uniform swallows
his intel reports and concedes,

“Well, you know, it’s very difficult
to safeguard every place.”
And as if to punctuate his remarks

the ruined legs of a boy
dangle out from a rescuer’s arms
lifeless, useless.

By Misael Mesina Paranial
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Robert W. Service, 'Carry On' [21 Feb 2015|01:00am]

duathir
Carry On

It's easy to fight when everything's right,
And you're mad with the thrill and the glory;
It's easy to cheer when victory's near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
It's a different song when everything's wrong,
When you're feeling infernally mortal;
When it's ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!
There isn't much punch in your blow.
You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven't the ghost of a show.
It's looking like death, but while you've a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
It's easy to fight when you're winning;
It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven's own height
Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Things never were looming so black.
But show that you haven't a cowardly streak,
And though you're unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It's looking like hell, but -- you never can tell:
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labour with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there's the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There's big work to do, and that's why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry:
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!

By Robert W. Service
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