[lit-ideas] Re: ... pro patria mori
- From: Jlsperanza@xxxxxxx
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Wed, 14 Nov 2007 15:41:39 EST
"Good morning, boys"
"Good morning, sir"
"Today, we are going to discuss a little war poem"
"Another anti-war shit?"
"No, this one is really deep"
(MURMURS)
"It's by an English, well, Welsh poet"
"Contemporary?"
"Sort of"
"Okay, to the thing, then what's the title?"
"Wait, I brought some photocopies, so please pass them on, and I'll call on
different students for the meaning. You have 5 whole minutes to digest"
[AFTER FIVE MINUTES]
-- Okay, Williams, what's the meaning of the first line. Can you read it
aloud?
-- Yes, sir: "Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,"
-- What is it?
-- (hesitating) ... An alexandrine?
-- Parse well:
-- Bent double-like-old-beggars-under-sacks.
-- JOHNSON: Did he say 'buggers'?
-- No, _bEggars_
-- JOHNSON: I thought he said, "buggers on the sack".
-- Very funny, Johnson, but no.
-- Smith, read the next:
-- Sure: "Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,"
(Stopping)
-- Go on.
-- I thought we were supposed to read one line each.
-- Shut up, Smith, and go on. The thing is starting to excite me. Can't you
see the flow of Owen's strong imagery. Go on.
-- Till when?
-- Till I tell you to stop.
--- (Smith reads).
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
ill 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.
--- Now you, Flynn.
-- Flynn, overacting
"Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!"
All laugh.
-- Not that gas, Flynn. This is the gas of death.
-- Sorry, doc.
--- 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.
(BELL RINGS -- all leave)
Flynn remains
-- What language is that, sir, at the end of the poem, Welsh?
-- YES. Good night.
-----
"I would read that poem to my high school English classes back in 1967 thru
72. It was always frowned on."
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