Flex Mentallo

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Posts posted by Flex Mentallo

  1. War's a joke for me and you,
    While we know such dreams are true.
    - Siegfried Sassoon

    Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death,-
    Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-
    Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
    We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-


  2. Do you remember that hour of din before the attack--
    And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
    As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
    Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
    With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey
    Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

    Have you forgotten yet?...
    Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.

    Seigfried Sassoon


  3. Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz--
    The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
    Do you remember the rats; and the stench
    Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench--
    And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
    Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'


  4. Have you forgotten yet?...
    For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
    Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
    And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
    Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
    Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
    But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game...
    Have you forgotten yet?...
    Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.


  5. What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
    Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
    Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
    Can patter out their hasty orisons.
    No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
    Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
    The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
    And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
    What candles may be held to speed them all?
    Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
    Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
    The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
    Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
    And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

    Wilfred Owen



  6. Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
    Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
    High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
    Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
    And these winds' scimitars,
    -Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
    Confuses more and more with the low mould,
    His hair being one with the grey grass
    Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
    Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
    He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
    Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!

    Wilfred Owen