Thursday, December 18, 2014

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Monday, December 15, 2014

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Friday, October 3, 2014

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Thursday, August 21, 2014

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Monday, May 19, 2014

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Sunday, April 27, 2014

Friday, April 25, 2014

Anzac Day 2014

Insensibility


I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers,
But they are troops who fade, not flowers
For poets’ tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.


II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance’s strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.


III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood forever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.


IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.


V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.


VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones;
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.


Wilfred Owen

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Monday, April 7, 2014

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Friday, March 7, 2014

Monday, February 17, 2014

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Thursday, January 2, 2014