Honor The Fallen

They Gave All *Gallery of the War Dead *Iraq All American Casualties To Date *Cost of Iraq War Continuous Tally ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wilfred Owen 1893-1918 This .... is not about heroes. ... Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except war. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense consolatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful. Wilfred Owen, from a preface to a planned book of his poetry. *Poetry of the First World War & Other Wars . . . "My Dead Are Not Silent" *Dusty My dead are not silent. They scream in my dreams. My dead are not still. They reach for their mothers. My dead are young soldiers spent, wasted, discarded. They paid the price for political ploys for strategic follies for tactical errors. The politicians and planners the orderers and senders discomfited but unshamed demand that my dead lie quiet that my grief be smothered that my ache be shunned that my memories be denied. But my dead will not be stilled They will not be shelved numbered catalogued straightened into sanitized rows. Their blood yet drips through my soul Their moans still echo through my heart. My dead demand remembrance My dead demand honor My dead demand that lessons be learned. I hear them still through my dreams through my laughter through my prayers My dead are not silent. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 goodbyes. 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. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "All wars are planned by older men In council rooms apart, Who call for greater armament And map the battle chart. But out along the shattered field Where golden dreams turn gray, How very young the faces were Where all the dead men lay. Portly and solemn in their pride, The elders cast their vote For this or that, or something else, That sounds the martial note. But where their sightless eyes stare out Beyond life's vanished toys, I've noticed nearly all the dead Were hardly more than boys." Grantland Rice *Poetry of the First World War & Other Wars . . . Stumble It!

Honor The Fallen

They Gave All *Gallery of the War Dead *Iraq All American Casualties To Date *Cost of Iraq War Continuous Tally ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wilfred Owen 1893-1918 This .... is not about heroes. ... Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except war. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense consolatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful. Wilfred Owen, from a preface to a planned book of his poetry. *Poetry of the First World War & Other Wars . . . "My Dead Are Not Silent" *Dusty My dead are not silent. They scream in my dreams. My dead are not still. They reach for their mothers. My dead are young soldiers spent, wasted, discarded. They paid the price for political ploys for strategic follies for tactical errors. The politicians and planners the orderers and senders discomfited but unshamed demand that my dead lie quiet that my grief be smothered that my ache be shunned that my memories be denied. But my dead will not be stilled They will not be shelved numbered catalogued straightened into sanitized rows. Their blood yet drips through my soul Their moans still echo through my heart. My dead demand remembrance My dead demand honor My dead demand that lessons be learned. I hear them still through my dreams through my laughter through my prayers My dead are not silent. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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 goodbyes. 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. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "All wars are planned by older men In council rooms apart, Who call for greater armament And map the battle chart. But out along the shattered field Where golden dreams turn gray, How very young the faces were Where all the dead men lay. Portly and solemn in their pride, The elders cast their vote For this or that, or something else, That sounds the martial note. But where their sightless eyes stare out Beyond life's vanished toys, I've noticed nearly all the dead Were hardly more than boys." Grantland Rice *Poetry of the First World War & Other Wars . . .