Exploring the Dark Wood - A poetry thread for the Backroom

[Banquo's Ghost]

I've had a request to open up a thread for poetry that might be considered challenging, thought-provoking or political - in other words, suitable for a Backroom discussion. The avowed purpose is to demonstrate that poetry is a powerful medium for the expression of ideas and emotions, and to share our own views through that medium.

I decided to start off with one of my favourite, if melancholic, reflections.


Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly fisher's wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist;
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce;
A Helen of social welfare dream
Climb onto a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort,
Observant old men know it well;
And when they know what old books tell
And that no better can be had,
Know why an old man should be mad.

W.B. Yeats

[Louis VI the Fat]

Great poem by Yeats. My answer to it is this, one of my favourite poems:

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, less, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Fragony]

This one. Never saw the WW1 trenches of course but this almost makes me taste it if only in my imagination. But I have a good one.

Futility.

Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved,- still warm,- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?



This is so powerfull, especially the outcry, 'was it for this the clay grew tall? O what made fatuous sunbeams toil to break earth sleep at all?'

I can see the man sitting in his trench asking these questions, and it breaks my heart every time I read it.

[Big_John]

interesting thread. :)


Wilfred Owen
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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.

[Fragony]

The poem 'futility' I posted before is that guy as well

[Banquo's Ghost]

Thanks for the contributions, chaps. Wilfred Owen was certainly an extraordinarily powerful chronicler of the raw emotion of war, and Futility one of his most moving.

Louis, of course :bow:

Here's a poem that consoles me a little when feeling sorry for myself (like in the first post) - or to understand the miracle of just doing a thing despite the cost. Irina Ratushinskaya isn't well known, and suffered a cruel imprisonment in the Soviet Union for the crime of writing poetry. As one greatly influenced by Albert Camus, in my youth I was affected by his essay "The Myth of Sisyphus" and Ms Ratushinskaya captures a personal rebellion against Fate through the same mythic image and a Russian understanding of the Absurd:

Stubborn
Like Sisyphus
Who rejects the taunts of Zeus
And wrenches out the stone;
Like the Levite
Who dares unveil the Ark
And touches it with bare hands;
Like a jackdaw
Who breaks a window in flight
From a strange house.
I am stubborn.
If not I, then who?
And again and again:
No, the cold
Will not reach beyond consciousness -
Warm rivers flow there! -
Nor time -
The fool who fights us
Over the words 'for ever',
But even parting
Is in shoddy disguise, even captivity
Is in clown's insignia.
Lifelong torment
For immortal souls - a threat? - a joke!
So let us all laugh together.

Translated from the Russian.

This and her other poems were written in Mordovia prison camp and smuggled out on pieces of paper. She was finally released from ten year's hard labour on the eve of the Reykjavik summit in 1986.

[Vladimir]

That was a good start Banquo. Oddly enough it reminds me of the song Shattered Dreams by Offspring (spoiler, minor language).

When we were young the future was so bright,
The old neighborhood was so alive,
Every kid on the whole damn street,
Was gonna make it big,
And not get beat.

Now the neighborhood's cracked and torn,
The kids are brought up but their lives are worn,
How can one little street,
Swallow so many lives?

Chances thrown,
Nothings free,
Longing for,
What it used to be.
Still its hard, hard to see
Fragile lives,
Shattered dreams.

Jamie had a chance, well she really did,
Instead she dropped out, had a couple of kids.
Mark still lives at home cuz hes got no job,
Just plays guitar, smokes a lot of pot.

Jay committed suicide,
Brandon od'd and died,
What the hellis going on,
Cruelest dream reality.

Chances thrown,
Nothings free.
Longing for what it used to be.
Still its hard, hard to see.
Fragile lives, shattered dreams.

Quite often people who are bitter at the end of their lives were bitter throughout but others have profound reasons.

Louis, that was an excellent response; all though I was reminded of an episode of Family Guy where Stewie quoted Dylan Thomas. (but it was a really good episode)

I'm glad to see so many works from The Great War here, I was hoping to see them. Here's one from that war's bigger brother:

I am Goya
of the bare field, by the enemy’s beak gouged
till the craters of my eyes gape
I am grief

I am the tongue
of war, the embers of cities
on the snows of the year 1941
I am hunger

I am the gullet
of a woman hanged whose body like a bell
tolled over a blank square
I am Goya

O grapes of wrath!
I have hurled westward
the ashes of the uninvited guest!
and hammered stars into the unforgetting sky - like nails
I am Goya
(translated from the Russian by Stanley Kunitz)

Andrey Voznesensky

Continuing with Banquo's second post: Where I can find more works like that? I've been doing some reading which gave a lot of credit for the fall of the Soviet Union to the poets and dissidents, usually the elite.

Along the political or Backroom oriented content I would really like to see a few "ethnic" works. Specifically from trouble spots like the Balkans and Southwest Asia. It might lead to thread closure but hey, it's the Backroom!

[Devastatin Dave]

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who had a goat and liked to.....

[Pannonian]

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who had a goat and liked to.....
feed it from a bucket.

[Vladimir]

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who had a goat and liked to.....

And on cue. :laugh4:

[Seamus Fermanagh]

So come with old Khayaam
and leave the wise to talk
One thing is certain
-- time flies
One thing is certain
-- the rest is lies
The flower that once has blown
--forever dies

Fitzgerald (trans?)


Actually, Banquo, I've also always been fond of the Tommorrow and Tomorrow passage from your avatar's namesake's play.


Good bits on the WW1 stuff lads. Though I actually like the Eric Bogel stuff a bit more -- though some might disdain to call it poetry.

[Banquo's Ghost]

Actually, Banquo, I've also always been fond of the Tommorrow and Tomorrow passage from your avatar's namesake's play.

:yes:


Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

MacBeth: Act 5, Scene 5. W. Shakespeare.

The bleakness of a man haunted. (Or a bad day in the Backroom...)

[InsaneApache]

I like a bit of the old 'pothead' Lewis Carroll. Man that must be some good stuff!

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

:egypt:

[Vladimir]

Here is my religiously biased, pro-American propaganda contribution:

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..
To the window that danced with a warm fire's light
Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right,

I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,

I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ' Pearl on a day in December,"
Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers."
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ' Nam ',
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue... an American flag.

I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.

I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall."

"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
"Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?

It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget.

To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.

Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."


LCDR Jeff Giles, SC, USN
Al Taqqadum, Iraq

[HoreTore]

"Du må ikke sove"(You must not sleep), by my fellow commie Arnulf Øverland, written just before the war. Translations are crappy, so I'll only post this in norwegian, sorry.

Jeg våknet en natt av en underlig drøm,
det var som en stemme talte til meg,
fjern som en underjordisk strøm -
og jeg reiste meg opp: Hva er det du vil meg?
- Du må ikke sove! Du må ikke sove!
Du må ikke tro, at du bare har drømt!

Igår ble jeg dømt
I natt har de reist skafottet i gården.
De henter meg klokken fem imorgen!

Hele kjelleren her er full.
og alle kaserner har kjeller ved kjeller.
Vi ligger og venter i stenkolde celler,
vi ligger og råtner i mørke hull!

Vi vet ikke, hva vi ligger og venter,
og hvem der kan bli den neste, de henter.
Vi stønner, vi skriker - men kan dere høre?
Kan dere absolutt ingenting gjøre?

Ingen får se oss.
Ingen får vite, hva der skal skje oss.
Ennu mer:
Ingen kan tro, hva her daglig skjer!

Du mener, det kan ikke være sant,
så onde kan ikke mennesker være.
Der finnes da vel skikkelig folk iblant?
Bror, du har ennu meget å lære!

Man sa: Du skal gi ditt liv, om det kreves.
Og nu har vi gitt det - forgjeves, forgjeves!
Verden har glemt oss! Vi er bedratt!
Du må ikke sove mer i natt!


Du må ikke gå til ditt kjøpmannsskap
og tenke på hva der gir vinning og tap!
Du må ikke skylde på aker og fe
og at du har mer enn nok med det!


Du må ikke sitte trygt i ditt hjem
og si: Det er sørgelig, stakkars dem!
Du må ikke tåle så inderlig vel
den urett som ikke rammer deg selv!
Jeg roper med siste pust av min stemme:
Du har ikke lov til å gå der å glemme!

Tilgi dem ikke; de vet hva de gjør!
De puster på hatets og ondskapens glør!
De liker å drepe, de frydes ved jammer,
de ønsker å se vår verden i flammer!
De ønsker å drukne oss alle i blod!
Tror du det ikke? Du vet det jo!

Du vet jo, at skolebarn er soldater,
som stimer med sang over torv og gater,
og oppglødd av mødrenes fromme svik,
vil verge sitt land og vil gå i krig!

Du kjenner det nedrige folkebedrag
med heltemot og med tro og ære -
du vet, at en helt, det vil barnet være.
du vet, han vil vifte med sabel og flagg!

Og så skal han ut i en skur av stål
og henge igjen i en piggtrådvase
og råtne for Hitlers ariske rase!
Du vet, det er menneskets mening og mål!

Jeg skjønte det ikke. Nu er det for sent.
Min dom er rettferdig. Min straff er fortjent.
Jeg trodde på fremgang, jeg trodde på fred,
på arbeid, på samhold, på kjærlighet!
Men den som ikke vil dø i flokk
får prøve alene, på bøddelens blokk!

Jeg roper i mørket - å, kunne du høre!
Der er en eneste ting å gjøre:
Verg deg, mens du har frie hender!
Frels dine barn! Europa brenner!

Jeg skaket av frost. Jeg fikk på meg klær.
Ute var glitrende stjernevær.

Bare en ulmende stripe i øst
varslet det samme som drømmens røst:
Dagen bakenom jordens rand
steg med et skjær av blod og brann,
steg med en angst så åndeløs,
at det var som om selve stjernene frøs!

Jeg tenkte: Nu er det noget som hender. -
Vår tid er forbi - Europa Brenner!

[Brenus]

Sur mes cahiers d'écolier
Sur mon pupitre et les arbres
Sur le sable sur la neige
J'écris ton nom

Sur toutes les pages lues
Sur toutes les pages blanches
Pierre sang papier ou cendre
J'écris ton nom

Sur les images dorées
Sur les armes des guerriers
Sur la couronne des rois
J'écris ton nom

Sur la jungle et le désert
Sur les nids sur les genêts
Sur l'écho de mon enfance
J'écris ton nom

Sur les merveilles des nuits
Sur le pain blanc des journées
Sur les saisons fiancées
J'écris ton nom

Sur tous mes chiffons d'azur
Sur l'étang soleil moisi
Sur le lac lune vivante
J'écris ton nom

Sur les champs sur l'horizon
Sur les ailes des oiseaux
Et sur le moulin des ombres
J'écris ton nom

Sur chaque bouffée d'aurore
Sur la mer sur les bateaux
Sur la montagne démente
J'écris ton nom

Sur la mousse des nuages
Sur les sueurs de l'orage
Sur la pluie épaisse et fade
J'écris ton nom

Sur les formes scintillantes
Sur les cloches des couleurs
Sur la vérité physique
J'écris ton nom

Sur les sentiers éveillés
Sur les routes déployées
Sur les places qui débordent
J'écris ton nom

Sur la lampe qui s'allume
Sur la lampe qui s'éteint
Sur mes maisons réunis
J'écris ton nom

Sur le fruit coupé en deux
Dur miroir et de ma chambre
Sur mon lit coquille vide
J'écris ton nom

Sur mon chien gourmand et tendre
Sur ses oreilles dressées
Sur sa patte maladroite
J'écris ton nom

Sur le tremplin de ma porte
Sur les objets familiers
Sur le flot du feu béni
J'écris ton nom

Sur toute chair accordée
Sur le front de mes amis
Sur chaque main qui se tend
J'écris ton nom

Sur la vitre des surprises
Sur les lèvres attentives
Bien au-dessus du silence
J'écris ton nom

Sur mes refuges détruits
Sur mes phares écroulés
Sur les murs de mon ennui
J'écris ton nom

Sur l'absence sans désir
Sur la solitude nue
Sur les marches de la mort
J'écris ton nom

Sur la santé revenue
Sur le risque disparu
Sur l'espoir sans souvenir
J'écris ton nom

Et par le pouvoir d'un mot
Je recommence ma vie
Je suis né pour te connaître
Pour te nommer

Liberté.
Paul Eluard
in Poésies et vérités 1942
Ed. de Minuit, 1942

In my composition books
on my desk, on the trees
in the sand, in the snow
I shall write your name.

On every page I read
on every blank page
on stone blood paper ashes
I write your name.

On guilded pictures
on the warriors' shields
on the crowns of the kings
I wrote your name.

On jungle and desert
on nest and gorse
on the echo of my childhood
I wrote your name.

In the marvels of the night
in the white bread of the days
in the seasons promised
I write your name.

On every patch of blue in leaden skies
on the pond in the musty sun
on the waterways of the living moon
I write your name.

On the fields, on the horizon
on the wings of every bird
on the grist-mill of shadows
I wrote your name.

On every whiff of dawn
on the sea, on the ships
on the demented mountain
I am writing your name.

On the foam of the clouds
on the sweat of the storm
on the rain thick and stale
I write your name.

On any favor granted
on the forehead of my friends
on every hand held out
I write your name.

On the windows of wonders
on all the listening lips
way above the silence
I shall write your name.

On my havens destroyed
on the lighthouses collapsed
on the walls of my despair
I have written your name.

On absence without desire
on the naked loneliness
even on the steps of death
I am still writing your name.

On health recovered
on risk dissipated
on hope without rancor
I write your name.

And by the power of a single word
I can begin my life again.
I was born to know you
to name you
Liberté

Paul Eluard

2nd one

J'ai tant rêvé de toi
J'ai tant rêvé de toi
que tu perds ta réalité.
Est-il encore temps d'atteindre ce corps vivant et de baiser
sur cette bouche la naissance de la voix qui m'est chère?


J'ai tant rêvé de toi
que mes bras habitués en étreignant ton ombre
à se croiser sur ma poitrine
ne se plieraient pas au contour de ton corps, peut-être.
Et que, devant l'apparence réelle de ce qui me hante et me gouverne depuis des jours et des années,
je deviendrais une ombre sans doute.
O balances sentimentales.


J'ai tant rêvé de toi
qu'il n'est plus temps sans doute que je m'éveille.
Je dors debout, le corps exposé à toutes les apparences de la vie et de l'amour et toi,
la seule qui compte aujourd'hui pour moi, je pourrais moins toucher ton front et tes lèvres que les premières lèvres et le premier front venu.


J'ai tant rêvé de toi,
tant marché, parlé, couché avec ton fantôme
qu'il ne me reste plus peut-être,
et pourtant, qu'à être fantôme parmi les fantômes et plus ombre cent fois que l'ombre qui se promène et se promènera allégrement sur le cadran solaire de ta vie.


Robert Desnos (1900 - 1945)

You have been in ...

You have been in my dreams for so long,
That you lose reality
Is it still time enough to reach that living body and to kiss
on that mouth the so dear birth of your voice?

You have been in my dreams for so long,
That my arms, in embracing your shade,
used to meet across my chest,
wouldn't fit in with the contour of your body, perhaps
And that, faced to the real display of my haunter and my ruler for days and years,
I might become a shade.
O sentimental balances

You have been in my dreams for so long,
That time for me to waken is probably gone.
I sleep standing, my body exposed to the complete appearances of life and love and you,
the only one who still matter to me at present, I could less easily touch your forehead and your lips than the first lips and the first forehead to come.

You have been in my dreams for so long,
where I was walking, talking, sleeping with your phantom
That there is nothing left to me.
perhaps, and yet, but to be a phantom among phantoms and more of a shade one hundred fold than the shadow cheerfully walking at present and in the future over the sundial of your life.

[Vladimir]

What should this song remind you of? Bullet for Valentine: Scream, Aim, Fire

Kill your enemies,
My brothers dead around me,
Wounds are hurting
Death is creeping for me,
Smoke is blinding
Hearts are pounding
Chaos soon ignites
The call is made
Its one for all
Will I meet my maker

Over The Top, Over The Top!
Right Now Its Killing Time! X3
Over The Top Over The Top!
The Only Way Out Is To Die!

God Has Spoken Through His Conscience
As I (SCREAM AIM AND FIRE!)
The death toll grows higher

God Has Spoken Through His Conscience
As I (SCREAM AIM AND FIRE!)
The death toll grows higher

F this battlefield,
The bullets shred around me,
Bodies falling,
Voices calling for me,
Limbs are flying,
Men are crying,
Such a hurtful sight,
The call is made,
Its one for all
TAKE NO PRISONERS


Over The Top, Over The Top!
Right Now Its Killing Time! X3
Over The Top, Over The Top!
The Only Way Out Is To Die!


God Has Spoken Through His Conscience
As I (SCREAM AIM AND FIRE)
The death toll grows higher

God Has Spoken Through His Conscience
As I (SCREAM AIM AND FIRE)
The death toll grows higher

(DEATH GRUNT)

SCREAM!!
AIM!!
FIRE!!! X2



Over The Top, Over The Top!
Right Now Its Killing Time! X3
Over The Top, Over The Top
The Only Way Out Is To Die!


God Has Spoken Through His Conscience
As I (SCREAM AIM AND FIRE)
The death toll grows higher
2x


(DEATH GRUNT)

SCREAM!!
AIM!!
FIRE!!!

Hint, it's a war (duh).

[Viking]

"Du må ikke sove"(You must not sleep), by my fellow commie Arnulf Øverland, written just before the war. Translations are crappy, so I'll only post this in norwegian, sorry.

[...]

Hmm, I think the Backroom was greatly enlightened by that poem. :inquisitive:

[Soulforged]

I'll add another entry from Dylan Thomas, a short one but meaningful to me:

O Make Me A Mask

O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
Rape and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.

[HoreTore]

Hmm, I think the Backroom was greatly enlightened by that poem. :inquisitive:

Yeah, well, it shouldn't be much harder to understand than those frenchies...

[Big_John]

Not particularly good poetry, imo, but it contains some great lines, and is fairly backroomy in subject.


Algernon Charles Swinburne
Love and Sleep

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

[Viking]

Yeah, well, it shouldn't be much harder to understand than those frenchies...

Those translated into English you mean? :gah:

Here's an English translation:


Dare not to sleep!

I was awakened one morning, by the quaintest of dreams
‘twas like a voice, spoken to me
It sounded afar - like an underground stream,
I rose and said: Why do you call me?

Dare not to slumber! Dare not to sleep!
Dare not believe, it was merely a dream!
Yore I was judged.
The gallows were built in the court this evening,
They’ll come for me — 5’ in the morning

This dungeon is teeming,
And barracks stand dungeon by dungeon
we lie here, awaiting, in cold cells of stone,
We lie here, we rot, in these murky holes.

We know not ourselves, what does lie ahead
Who will be the next one they'll reach for.
We moan and we shriek: But do you take heed?
Is there none among you who’ll hearken?

No one can see us,
None know what befalls us.
Yet more:
None will believe - what the day will bring us!

And then You defy: This dare not be true!
That men can be utterly evil.
There has to be some one with merits pure
Oh, brother, you still have a great deal to learn

They said: You will give your life, if commanded
We’ve given it now, for naught it was handed
The world has forgotten, we’ve all been deceived
Dare not to sleep in this hour - this eve.

You oughtn’t go to your business hence,
Or think: What’s your loss – or what is your gain?
You oughtn’t attribute your fields and your kine,
Nor say you’ve enough - with all that is thine.

You oughn’t abide, sitting calm in your home
Saying: Dismal it is, poor they are, and alone
You cannot permit it! You dare not, at all.
Accepting that outrage on all else may fall!
I cry with the final gasps of my breath:
You dare not repose, nor stand and forget

Pardon them not - they know what they do!
They breathe on hate-glows, and evil pursue,
They fancy to slay, they revel with cries,
Their desire is to gloat, when our world is at fire!
In blood they are yearning to drown one and all!
Don’t you believe it? You’ve heard the call!

You know how infants will soldiers remain,
While dashing through streets, fields, chanting ‘bout pain
Aroused by their mothers‘ assurance of glory
They’ll shelter their land - and they’ll never worry

You know the fatality of the lies,
that glory and faith and honor abides
You discern the dauntless dreams of a child,
A saber, a banner, he’ll flaunt them so wild,

And then they’ll leave home for a rainfall of steel,
‘Till last they hang ragged on barbed wire will,
Decaying for Hitler's Aryan call,
That is what a man’s for - after all…

I couldn’t imagine – too late now it is
My sentence is just: The verdict's no miss
I believed in prosperity, dreamt about peace
In labor and fellowship; love’s fragrant kiss
Yet those who don’t die on the battlefield,
Their heads for the axeman, will certainly yield

I cry in the gloom - if only you’d knew
There is but one thing - befitting to do
Defend yourself, while your hands are still yearning,
Protect your offspring - Europe is burning.

***

I shook from the chill. To dress, up I rose
Without stars were shining, so far, yet so close
‘twere simply a brilliant ray in the east,
Admonishing warning from the dream that just ceased

The day that soared up from earths furthermost strand
Augmenting with blood — and with firebrand
It grew with terror - like a breath that was lost
It seemed like the starlight - was slain by the frost.

I weighed: Something is imminent - and it’s dire
Our era is over — Europe’s on fire!

[Big_John]

in honor of the current upswing in the backroom's oscillating fascination with queer folk:

Paul Verlaine
Spring

Tender, the young auburn woman,
By such innocence aroused,
Said to the blonde young girl
These words, in a soft low voice:

'Sap which mounts, and flowers which thrust,
Your childhood is a bower:
Let my fingers wander in the moss
Where glows the rosebud

'Let me among the clean grasses
Drink the drops of dew
Which sprinkle the tender flower, --

'So that pleasure, my dear,
Should brighten your open brow
Like dawn the reluctant blue.'

Her dear rare body, harmonious,
Fragrant, white as white
Rose, whiteness of pure milk, and rosy
As a lily beneath purple skies?

Beauteous thighs, upright breasts,
The back, the loins and belly, feast
For the eyes and prying hands
And for the lips and all the sense

'Little one, let us see if your bed
Has still beneath the red curtain
The beautiful pillow that slips so
And the wild sheets. O to your bed!'

[naut]

Don't usually like Kipling, but the poem If by him is great.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Also:


Ode on Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

Alexander Pope

[Conradus]

I've always found this to be one of the most beautifull and sad poems I know.

The Shield of Achilles
W. H. Auden


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She looked over his shoulder
For vines and olive trees,
Marble well-governed cities
And ships upon untamed seas,
But there on the shining metal
His hands had put instead
An artificial wilderness
And a sky like lead.

A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,
Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
An unintelligible multitude,
A million eyes, a million boots in line,
Without expression, waiting for a sign.

Out of the air a voice without a face
Proved by statistics that some cause was just
In tones as dry and level as the place:
No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
Column by column in a cloud of dust
They marched away enduring a belief
Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.

She looked over his shoulder
For ritual pieties,
White flower-garlanded heifers,
Libation and sacrifice,
But there on the shining metal
Where the altar should have been,
She saw by his flickering forge-light
Quite another scene.

Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
A crowd of ordinary decent folk
Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
As three pale figures were led forth and bound
To three posts driven upright in the ground.

The mass and majesty of this world, all
That carries weight and always weighs the same
Lay in the hands of others; they were small
And could not hope for help and no help came:
What their foes like to do was done, their shame
Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
And died as men before their bodies died.

She looked over his shoulder
For athletes at their games,
Men and women in a dance
Moving their sweet limbs
Quick, quick, to music,
But there on the shining shield
His hands had set no dancing-floor
But a weed-choked field.

A ragged urchin, aimless and alone,
Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
Were axioms to him, who'd never heard
Of any world where promises were kept,
Or one could weep because another wept.

The thin-lipped armorer,
Hephaestos, hobbled away,
Thetis of the shining breasts
Cried out in dismay
At what the god had wrought
To please her son, the strong
Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
Who would not live long.