Poems & Pictures - One Man
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Dark Star
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This image was provided by Dave (animal168) for which thanks and the words are by the great war poet Wilfred Owen.
For all those who have died in conflicts not of their making!
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.
For all those who have died in conflicts not of their making!
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.
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I visited the National Memorial recently and was captivated by this poem.
[Picture from Public Archives]
Who Are These Men.
Who are these men
who march so proud
who quietly weep
eyes closed, heads bowed
these are the men
who once were boys
who missed out on youth
and all of its joys
Who are these men
with aged faces
who silently count
the empty spaces
these are the men
who gave their all
who fought for their country
for freedom for all
who are these men
with sorrowfull look
who still can remember
the lives that were took
these are the men
who saw young men die
the price of peace
is always high
Who are the men
who in the midst of pain
whispered comfort to those
they would not see again
These are the men
whose hands held tomorrow
who brought back our future
with blood tears and sorrow
Who are these men
who promised to keep
alive in their hearts
the ones god holds asleep
these are the men
to whom I promise again
veterans my friends
I WILL REMEMBER THEM.
By Jodie Johnson [Aged 11]
From the National Memorial Alweras
[
[Picture from Public Archives]
Who Are These Men.
Who are these men
who march so proud
who quietly weep
eyes closed, heads bowed
these are the men
who once were boys
who missed out on youth
and all of its joys
Who are these men
with aged faces
who silently count
the empty spaces
these are the men
who gave their all
who fought for their country
for freedom for all
who are these men
with sorrowfull look
who still can remember
the lives that were took
these are the men
who saw young men die
the price of peace
is always high
Who are the men
who in the midst of pain
whispered comfort to those
they would not see again
These are the men
whose hands held tomorrow
who brought back our future
with blood tears and sorrow
Who are these men
who promised to keep
alive in their hearts
the ones god holds asleep
these are the men
to whom I promise again
veterans my friends
I WILL REMEMBER THEM.
By Jodie Johnson [Aged 11]
From the National Memorial Alweras
[
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Not seen this thread before, but what a cracking idea. This is one of my fave poems and an image of a young scamp at a wedding I went to in Greece earlier this year.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps copying my work, Miss.
What shall I do?
Go and sit in the hall, dear.
Go and sit in the sink.
Take your books on the roof, my lamb.
Do whatever you think.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps taking my rubber, Miss.
What shall I do?
Keep it in your hand, dear.
Hide it up your vest.
Swallow it if you like, love.
Do what you think best.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps calling me rude names, Miss.
What shall I do?
Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear.
Run away to sea.
Do whatever you can, my flower.
But don't ask me!
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps copying my work, Miss.
What shall I do?
Go and sit in the hall, dear.
Go and sit in the sink.
Take your books on the roof, my lamb.
Do whatever you think.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps taking my rubber, Miss.
What shall I do?
Keep it in your hand, dear.
Hide it up your vest.
Swallow it if you like, love.
Do what you think best.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps calling me rude names, Miss.
What shall I do?
Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear.
Run away to sea.
Do whatever you can, my flower.
But don't ask me!
OP
Dark Star
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Now to lighten the thread here's a funny one (with a message 
)
Image by Lee (aka 68lbs), for which thanks, and poem by Bob!
Colin's conker
Young Colin wasn't into bling
Or pop and wasn't gobby,
This schoolboy only loved one thing
As conkers was his hobby.
One day beneath a chestnut tree
Stood Colin's hopeful figure,
A stick he chucked, when down came three
He noticed one was bigger.
His prized possession now was here,
Less conker, more a rocket
He picked up that amazing sphere
And put it in his pocket.
When he got home excitement grew
This nut was hard as copper,
In vinegar he soaked it too,
It really was a whopper.
He drilled a hole, inserting string
Into that ball of might,
He practised on his whack and swing
For nearly half the night.
Now Colin soared in every game
His triumphs did quadruple,
His weapon brought him local fame,
A much respected pupil.
The school knockout was coming up,
A treat for conker lovers,
With hopes of lifting his first cup
And beating all the others.
The kids expected so much fun,
There even was a trophy
And Colin's fan club it was run
By Brenda and by Sophie.
His missile stunned in each tough round
And always stayed unshattered,
They cheered so loud in that playground
When chestnut debris scattered.
The final came with Colin's mate
Whose name was Tommy Walker,
Though Tommy was quite overweight
His conker was a corker.
The stage was set and so intense,
The crowd began to go nuts,
Although the pressure was immense
Still Tommy munched his doughnuts.
But with the match about to start
A teacher stopped it all,
He whipped a note out and a chart
Then read a brand new rule.
He gave instructions to obey,
The mind it rather boggles,
Now conkers you could only play
With tin hat and with goggles.
'A splinter can endanger us
When it goes flying high
And random lumps are dangerous
If they go in your eye.'
Now Colin's chance had slipped away
And all around a groan went,
The teacher ruined their big day
And issued a postponement.
The crowd dispersed that was so large,
Soon Colin gave up conkers,
With health and safety now in charge
The whole world had gone bonkers.
They took a pleasure with this act
From every girl and boy;
A simple law you may enact
But do not squash the joy.
)Image by Lee (aka 68lbs), for which thanks, and poem by Bob!
Colin's conker
Young Colin wasn't into bling
Or pop and wasn't gobby,
This schoolboy only loved one thing
As conkers was his hobby.
One day beneath a chestnut tree
Stood Colin's hopeful figure,
A stick he chucked, when down came three
He noticed one was bigger.
His prized possession now was here,
Less conker, more a rocket
He picked up that amazing sphere
And put it in his pocket.
When he got home excitement grew
This nut was hard as copper,
In vinegar he soaked it too,
It really was a whopper.
He drilled a hole, inserting string
Into that ball of might,
He practised on his whack and swing
For nearly half the night.
Now Colin soared in every game
His triumphs did quadruple,
His weapon brought him local fame,
A much respected pupil.
The school knockout was coming up,
A treat for conker lovers,
With hopes of lifting his first cup
And beating all the others.
The kids expected so much fun,
There even was a trophy
And Colin's fan club it was run
By Brenda and by Sophie.
His missile stunned in each tough round
And always stayed unshattered,
They cheered so loud in that playground
When chestnut debris scattered.
The final came with Colin's mate
Whose name was Tommy Walker,
Though Tommy was quite overweight
His conker was a corker.
The stage was set and so intense,
The crowd began to go nuts,
Although the pressure was immense
Still Tommy munched his doughnuts.
But with the match about to start
A teacher stopped it all,
He whipped a note out and a chart
Then read a brand new rule.
He gave instructions to obey,
The mind it rather boggles,
Now conkers you could only play
With tin hat and with goggles.
'A splinter can endanger us
When it goes flying high
And random lumps are dangerous
If they go in your eye.'
Now Colin's chance had slipped away
And all around a groan went,
The teacher ruined their big day
And issued a postponement.
The crowd dispersed that was so large,
Soon Colin gave up conkers,
With health and safety now in charge
The whole world had gone bonkers.
They took a pleasure with this act
From every girl and boy;
A simple law you may enact
But do not squash the joy.
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- Jean
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This thread continues to tug my heartstrings, to make me smile and at times to make me sad.
My sympathies to you, Robin and your family. I hope your lovely family photos bring you all comfort. It has made me think, yet again, how important our family photos are to future generations and how careless I am with many of ours. Food for thought.
Jean
My sympathies to you, Robin and your family. I hope your lovely family photos bring you all comfort. It has made me think, yet again, how important our family photos are to future generations and how careless I am with many of ours. Food for thought.
Jean
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- Robin
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Thanks Jean
Totally agree on how important photo's can be, sadly sometimes its too late too wish you had taken more
OP
Dark Star
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- John
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OP
Dark Star
TPer Emeritus
- Messages
- 12,829
- Name
- John
- Edit My Images
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This poem is essentially true, its by my bro (as ever) and reflects a bad time at secondary school - it was an old fashioned grammar school and the year was 1968.
The school in the image (kindly supplied by FionaB for which many thanks) may be a fine and wonderful school and in no way does the poem reflect the school pictured. But the grim and foreboding image seemed to me to fit the words. When I first read the poem I cried - Bob and I are twins and those days were bad for him and it hurt to recall him going through that experience!
Even if the poem doesn't appeal then I hope you agree that the image is terrific in its own right
My Schooldays
My new school at twelve it extinguished the smile
A burnt sienna toned vast Victorian pile,
I sensed something wrong on the very first day
But knew things would now all be done in their way.
As soon as I got there a bully attacked
The panic surged up, like a sharp knife it hacked,
Alone in a sea of new faces so strange
With all that I loved distant out of my range.
Mired in the Empire's proud red, white and blue
By jingo they tried hard to make it all true,
The meaningless song heaping Brittania's praise
That sang of the school and it's glorious ways.
The morning assemblies describing God's love
And all the forgiveness of Heaven above,
While their actual coinage had much dearer rate
The currency chosen was meaningless hate.
A lot of the masters had suffered at war
Lived desolate moments and seen blood soaked gore;
And now here they were with another new foe
All lined up as targets in row after row.
The sadist taught English with hard words of stone
He killed poem's souls and he crippled their tone,
One eye and one leg how he glowered with spite
To rule in that classroom with conquering might.
In Science a boy whispered into my ear
In seconds the teacher was standing so near;
A blow he delivered, his face now grotesque
My head filled with pain as it glanced on the desk.
Their rules seemed to filter into the young minds
New cliques and societies found time to bind,
Outsiders were mocked with their triumphant cheers
Then lonely I stood too ashamed to show tears.
At night walking home two of them stood in place,
Determined I was to hide fear from my face;
But one searched his pocket and brought out some steel
The blade that he brandished was frightening and real.
I gave them the money and went on my path
And then from behind me I heard them both laugh,
School blazer, school tie were a burdensome thing
That halted each soul in it's deep need to sing.
Enlightenment came in the last few brief terms
With teachers who didn't treat children like worms,
Too late, the main lesson I learnt at your school
Was how people could be so callously cruel.
For years your grey corridors haunted my dreams
I wandered midst faces in desolate streams;
Now poetry teaches me all that is good
And gives me the love that your walls never could.
The school in the image (kindly supplied by FionaB for which many thanks) may be a fine and wonderful school and in no way does the poem reflect the school pictured. But the grim and foreboding image seemed to me to fit the words. When I first read the poem I cried - Bob and I are twins and those days were bad for him and it hurt to recall him going through that experience!
Even if the poem doesn't appeal then I hope you agree that the image is terrific in its own right
My Schooldays
My new school at twelve it extinguished the smile
A burnt sienna toned vast Victorian pile,
I sensed something wrong on the very first day
But knew things would now all be done in their way.
As soon as I got there a bully attacked
The panic surged up, like a sharp knife it hacked,
Alone in a sea of new faces so strange
With all that I loved distant out of my range.
Mired in the Empire's proud red, white and blue
By jingo they tried hard to make it all true,
The meaningless song heaping Brittania's praise
That sang of the school and it's glorious ways.
The morning assemblies describing God's love
And all the forgiveness of Heaven above,
While their actual coinage had much dearer rate
The currency chosen was meaningless hate.
A lot of the masters had suffered at war
Lived desolate moments and seen blood soaked gore;
And now here they were with another new foe
All lined up as targets in row after row.
The sadist taught English with hard words of stone
He killed poem's souls and he crippled their tone,
One eye and one leg how he glowered with spite
To rule in that classroom with conquering might.
In Science a boy whispered into my ear
In seconds the teacher was standing so near;
A blow he delivered, his face now grotesque
My head filled with pain as it glanced on the desk.
Their rules seemed to filter into the young minds
New cliques and societies found time to bind,
Outsiders were mocked with their triumphant cheers
Then lonely I stood too ashamed to show tears.
At night walking home two of them stood in place,
Determined I was to hide fear from my face;
But one searched his pocket and brought out some steel
The blade that he brandished was frightening and real.
I gave them the money and went on my path
And then from behind me I heard them both laugh,
School blazer, school tie were a burdensome thing
That halted each soul in it's deep need to sing.
Enlightenment came in the last few brief terms
With teachers who didn't treat children like worms,
Too late, the main lesson I learnt at your school
Was how people could be so callously cruel.
For years your grey corridors haunted my dreams
I wandered midst faces in desolate streams;
Now poetry teaches me all that is good
And gives me the love that your walls never could.
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- Fiona
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THE INVITATION
by
Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dreams
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your
fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."
It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
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- Marcel
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John, thats a brilliant poem about the school. (And a cracking image too!)
I've been discussing and thinking alot recently, how our school years are incredibly formative of who we are in later life. I had huge confidence problems at school, and carried those into my adult life. Even so that 20 years later I still have the same hangups and self-confidence issues I had back at school......
A very thoughtful poem, thanks
I've been discussing and thinking alot recently, how our school years are incredibly formative of who we are in later life. I had huge confidence problems at school, and carried those into my adult life. Even so that 20 years later I still have the same hangups and self-confidence issues I had back at school......
A very thoughtful poem, thanks
OP
Dark Star
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John, thats a brilliant poem about the school. (And a cracking image too!)
I've been discussing and thinking alot recently, how our school years are incredibly formative of who we are in later life. I had huge confidence problems at school, and carried those into my adult life. Even so that 20 years later I still have the same hangups and self-confidence issues I had back at school......
A very thoughtful poem, thanks
Marcel thanks, it means a lot to my brother if people can relate to his work - those were his formative years - like the rest of us I guess - that poem was the first time I really 'heard' him express what he went through!
OP
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This is a heavy one! Image by skipraider with thanks, words by Bob
One Man
When the dust began to settle
Weary Europe gave a sigh,
Then the poppy's crimson petal
And the Treaty of Versailles
Took away the German metal
Armoured war machine supply.
One man who lived through the slaughter
Where the millions had to trudge
Felt that treaty gave no quarter,
Letting foreign rulers judge,
His outlook would never alter
From a sullen brooding grudge.
Who had made the State turn tender
Making it as good as lame?
What explained this weak surrender,
What had caused disgrace and shame?
Someone had a foul agenda,
Someone who should take the blame.
Through the post war streets he wandered
Watching battle sated queues,
In the aftermath he pondered
Then he formulated views,
Realizing where life was squandered
How he really hated Jews.
In the dim light of beer kellers
Burgermeisters drank with glee,
This hypnotic fortune teller's
Devastating repartee
Pleased both wealthy city dwellers
And the rural peasantry.
Every outraged claim and antic,
Every gesture caused a cheer,
Far from boring or pedantic
Speeches lit the fuses here,
When his voice became more frantic
It confirmed a simple fear.
Only those whose blood was purer
Could maintain the human trail,
Only this would ever cure a
Nation that was due to fail,
So they voted for the Fuehrer,
Each arm rising in a heil.
Perfect fathers, perfect mothers
Perfect offspring they'd permit,
Jews along with any others
Who weren't normal didn't fit,
To the mighty culture lovers
Underlings must all submit.
So the world again attempted
To bring back the peace again,
Very few were now exempted
From the hardship and the strain,
Soldiers saw as camps were emptied
Eyes that ached with lonely pain.
And today green fields and valleys
Have no sign of what took place
And the cottages and alleys
Of quaint hamlets give no trace,
For the echoes at the rallies
Died out with the Master Race.
Sculptor hammers then embosses,
Words are carved, forever set
Names on endless white stone crosses
Showing who paid freedom's debt,
One man's hate brought all these losses,
One man we must not forget.
One Man
When the dust began to settle
Weary Europe gave a sigh,
Then the poppy's crimson petal
And the Treaty of Versailles
Took away the German metal
Armoured war machine supply.
One man who lived through the slaughter
Where the millions had to trudge
Felt that treaty gave no quarter,
Letting foreign rulers judge,
His outlook would never alter
From a sullen brooding grudge.
Who had made the State turn tender
Making it as good as lame?
What explained this weak surrender,
What had caused disgrace and shame?
Someone had a foul agenda,
Someone who should take the blame.
Through the post war streets he wandered
Watching battle sated queues,
In the aftermath he pondered
Then he formulated views,
Realizing where life was squandered
How he really hated Jews.
In the dim light of beer kellers
Burgermeisters drank with glee,
This hypnotic fortune teller's
Devastating repartee
Pleased both wealthy city dwellers
And the rural peasantry.
Every outraged claim and antic,
Every gesture caused a cheer,
Far from boring or pedantic
Speeches lit the fuses here,
When his voice became more frantic
It confirmed a simple fear.
Only those whose blood was purer
Could maintain the human trail,
Only this would ever cure a
Nation that was due to fail,
So they voted for the Fuehrer,
Each arm rising in a heil.
Perfect fathers, perfect mothers
Perfect offspring they'd permit,
Jews along with any others
Who weren't normal didn't fit,
To the mighty culture lovers
Underlings must all submit.
So the world again attempted
To bring back the peace again,
Very few were now exempted
From the hardship and the strain,
Soldiers saw as camps were emptied
Eyes that ached with lonely pain.
And today green fields and valleys
Have no sign of what took place
And the cottages and alleys
Of quaint hamlets give no trace,
For the echoes at the rallies
Died out with the Master Race.
Sculptor hammers then embosses,
Words are carved, forever set
Names on endless white stone crosses
Showing who paid freedom's debt,
One man's hate brought all these losses,
One man we must not forget.
Matt Sayle
2017MSA Young Photographer of the Year(Motorsport)
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These are fantastic!!
OP
Dark Star
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- John
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I'llI have a new thread Poems and Pictures 2 where the theme is continued as this one is getting unwieldy!
Thanks for your support and contributions so far - I hope we can keep it going in the new thread
Thanks for your support and contributions so far - I hope we can keep it going in the new thread
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