Dulce et Decorum est

There was a great deal I felt like writing about immediately following the election, but (as is plain to see) there is little indication of it. I shall spare you my diatribes, fulminations, and declamations on the matter. Suffice it to say that I was less than pleased with the outcome (albeit, it could have been worse). Although, while the war was lost, my riding of West Vancouver ousted the conservatives (under whatever name) for the first time since 1974, a most unexpected and pleasant surprise.

Lately I have been rather devoted to catching up on the medley of readings that I need to do for my various classes. I am, as of this moment, still significantly behind, but the margin is narrowing. Thus far tonight, I have eschewed my readings in favour of an anthology of poetry (no doubt jointly responsible for my unusually jargonistic affection), but due to my seminar tommorow, shall take to them again presently (or, after this entry that is). In any case, this entry was intended to exhibit some moving poetry, and thus without further ado I give to you 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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 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.

March, 1918