Page 1 of 1 [ 12 posts ] 

Asp-Z
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 6 Dec 2009
Age: 26
Gender: Male
Posts: 11,016

11 Nov 2011, 1:19 pm

R.I.P. to all the fallen soldiers who gave their lives to fight for us.

Image



Gedrene
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 9 Jul 2011
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Posts: 2,725

11 Nov 2011, 1:39 pm

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
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 Flanders fields.

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



Douglas_MacNeill
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 10 May 2007
Age: 55
Gender: Male
Posts: 1,402
Location: Edmonton, Alberta

11 Nov 2011, 1:49 pm

*observes 2 minutes of silence*



Gedrene
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 9 Jul 2011
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Posts: 2,725

11 Nov 2011, 1:54 pm

*plays reveille*



Marcia
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 14 Apr 2008
Age: 51
Gender: Female
Posts: 2,218

13 Nov 2011, 6:16 pm

Poems I read in church this morning before we stood in silent remembrance.

Dulce et Decorum est
by Wilfred Owen who was killed in action on 4 November 1918 exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death. His mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day, as the church bells were ringing out in celebration.


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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 help less 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
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.


How To Kill

by Keith Douglas who was killed in 1944, during the invasion of Normandy, when he was 24 years old.

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears

And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.

The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches




The thousand-mile stare
by Colonel Simon Marr, MBE
Operation Herrick, Afghanistan, 2007 and 2010


Winding in a corkscrew of torque and pitch,
we plunged downwards from cloudless heights of blue
to roll seasick through steep banks and sharp twists.
Jagged shards of shadow and light stabbed through
our porthole views over Afghan plains.

As we landed inside the Helmand camp,
our wheels kissed the sand in metal washes of noise.
The troops rose clumsily and moved off the ramp,
swallowed from view by the sandstorm. Young boys,
wide eyes, plump faces, fresh combats, clean boots.

In this brutal patchwork of the Green Zone
it's one more unremarkable outpost.
Here, for six bloody months, far from home,
men dance with death and brush past the ghosts
who squat in the shadows of mud walls.

I twisted and squinted through the perspex pane,
but there was only dust, gravel, wire and sun.
I'd seen enough and I turned round again.
Opposite me, new shapes slumped, with their guns
laid casually over their knees.

We lifted clear to a steady hover
and then surged giddily to blue safety.
Your head feels squashed by the mounting pressure,
your ears pop and you grab straps to steady
yourself. And then we levelled and slowed.

I watched the soldier sat across from me.
His helmet was off. I studied his face.
His cheeks were hollow. Blond hair had burst free
in random clumps from his crewcut - no grace
the fatigue lines that etched his skin.

He had a week of stubble, maybe more.
He never looked at me, but I watched his eyes.
They hardly blinked, remained on the gunner's door.
People have told me that when someone dies
you can see life ebb and then seep away.

And these eyes were losing their light, fading blue,
not even the flicker of a dying flare.
Nothing seemed to register and I knew
that I was looking at the thousand-mile stare.


We conclude our words on remembrance with the well-known words from Laurence Binyon’s poem, For the Fallen, written in September 1914.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them.



ruveyn
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 21 Sep 2008
Age: 83
Gender: Male
Posts: 31,726
Location: New Jersey

13 Nov 2011, 10:14 pm

Asp-Z wrote:
R.I.P. to all the fallen soldiers who gave their lives to fight for us.



Amen. They have done more for me than I have ever done for them.

ruveyn



Kraichgauer
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 12 Apr 2010
Gender: Male
Posts: 40,433
Location: Spokane area, Washington state.

16 Nov 2011, 11:59 pm

Marcia wrote:
Poems I read in church this morning before we stood in silent remembrance.

Dulce et Decorum est
by Wilfred Owen who was killed in action on 4 November 1918 exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death. His mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day, as the church bells were ringing out in celebration.


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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 help less 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
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.


How To Kill

by Keith Douglas who was killed in 1944, during the invasion of Normandy, when he was 24 years old.

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears

And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.

The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches




The thousand-mile stare
by Colonel Simon Marr, MBE
Operation Herrick, Afghanistan, 2007 and 2010


Winding in a corkscrew of torque and pitch,
we plunged downwards from cloudless heights of blue
to roll seasick through steep banks and sharp twists.
Jagged shards of shadow and light stabbed through
our porthole views over Afghan plains.

As we landed inside the Helmand camp,
our wheels kissed the sand in metal washes of noise.
The troops rose clumsily and moved off the ramp,
swallowed from view by the sandstorm. Young boys,
wide eyes, plump faces, fresh combats, clean boots.

In this brutal patchwork of the Green Zone
it's one more unremarkable outpost.
Here, for six bloody months, far from home,
men dance with death and brush past the ghosts
who squat in the shadows of mud walls.

I twisted and squinted through the perspex pane,
but there was only dust, gravel, wire and sun.
I'd seen enough and I turned round again.
Opposite me, new shapes slumped, with their guns
laid casually over their knees.

We lifted clear to a steady hover
and then surged giddily to blue safety.
Your head feels squashed by the mounting pressure,
your ears pop and you grab straps to steady
yourself. And then we levelled and slowed.

I watched the soldier sat across from me.
His helmet was off. I studied his face.
His cheeks were hollow. Blond hair had burst free
in random clumps from his crewcut - no grace
the fatigue lines that etched his skin.

He had a week of stubble, maybe more.
He never looked at me, but I watched his eyes.
They hardly blinked, remained on the gunner's door.
People have told me that when someone dies
you can see life ebb and then seep away.

And these eyes were losing their light, fading blue,
not even the flicker of a dying flare.
Nothing seemed to register and I knew
that I was looking at the thousand-mile stare.


We conclude our words on remembrance with the well-known words from Laurence Binyon’s poem, For the Fallen, written in September 1914.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
we will remember them.


I remember Wilfred Owen from a British lit class I took back in my college days. He remains one of my favorite English born poets.

-Bill, otherwise known as Kraichgauer



Darmok
Veteran
Veteran

Joined: 18 Dec 2015
Gender: Male
Posts: 9,249
Location: New England

11 Nov 2018, 12:39 am

11/11/1918 – 11/11/2108


_________________
 
There Are Four Lights!


thoughtbeast
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 19 Oct 2014
Gender: Male
Posts: 1,337
Location: Scarlet Jungle of Krypton

11 Nov 2018, 1:13 am



Piobaire
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 28 Dec 2017
Gender: Male
Posts: 1,347
Location: Smackass Gap, NC

11 Nov 2018, 7:12 am

At 1100, I'll strike in, and pipe GS McLennan's 'Unknown Warrior'. After one minute of silence, I'll pipe the Lament; 'Flowers of the Forest', and recite the Act of Remembrance.

Image

They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
We shall remember them.



Piobaire
Veteran
Veteran

User avatar

Joined: 28 Dec 2017
Gender: Male
Posts: 1,347
Location: Smackass Gap, NC

11 Nov 2018, 9:06 am



B19
Forum Moderator
Forum Moderator

User avatar

Joined: 11 Jan 2013
Gender: Female
Posts: 9,409
Location: New Zealand

11 Nov 2018, 11:29 pm

Now Sanders is belatedly announcing that Trump stayed away from the service because he {wanted to watch himself on Fox News while eating cheeseburgers} didn't want to cause traffic problems. Well goodness gracious me..

Trump tells the lies
Sanders spins better lies
The Press reports the lies
A section of Trump lovers completely believe the lies
Democrats shudder at the lies
The World laughs at the lies