For Armistice Day

[megustaleer]

Dulce et decorum est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out 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 gas-shells dropping softly 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
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.

[Cathy]

I got a online translation of the latin, it came out as :
Sweetness and decorated is For fatherland to die.
Can anyone do a better job of it?

Thanks for the post Meg, very good idea.

[Claire]

I've always had a vague sense that the latin means something like, "It is a sweet and noble thing, to die for one's country", but that's based on no actual knowledge of latin at all. Anyone out there actually educated in such things?

I've never read very much war poetry, but I am familiar with this one, through having "done" it at school. It's full of such haunting, disturbing images. I find it leaves me with really vivid mental pictures of what Wilfrid Owens experienced.

Thanks for posting it, megustaleer. We live next door to a primary school and I was moved yesterday to see the kids in the playground all stop at 11 o'clock and have a one minute silence, lead by the head teacher, half way through playtime. My eldest is 6 and tends to think that being a soldier is all a big game of goodies and baddies - one step down from playing at superheros. It certainly made him stop and think a bit about the much less glamourous side of war.

[Flingo]

I was ashamed today to hear a couple of teenagers talking about the poppies in the box on the counter at work.

"So what are these poppies all about then? They seem to be the latest craze."
"I dunno, it's something to do with the Labour Party, isn't it?"

I'm not sure whether they were messing around or if they really meant it, but either way I felt such shock. I wish I had had the thought to show them this, and "In Flanders Fields" (by John McCrae) - another poem that sums up this time of year for me. Unfortunately with their attitude I am not sure they would have understood anyway.

But for them and me:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

[megustaleer]

I've always had a vague sense that the latin means something like, "It is a sweet and noble thing, to die for one's country", but that's based on no actual knowledge of latin at all. Anyone out there actually educated in such things?
That's what I understand it to mean (I'm no latin scholar, either).

I just find it such a shock every time, to hear 'the old lie' following straight on from the description of what it is really like to die for one's country.

[Cathy]

I was ashamed today to hear a couple of teenagers talking about the poppies in the box on the counter at work.

"So what are these poppies all about then? They seem to be the latest craze."
"I dunno, it's something to do with the Labour Party, isn't it?"

I'm not sure whether they were messing around or if they really meant it, but either way I felt such shock. I wish I had had the thought to show them this, and "In Flanders Fields" (by John McCrae) - another poem that sums up this time of year for me. Unfortunately with their attitude I am not sure they would have understood anyway.

But for them and me:

That is terrible!

I found it a real mission to even find a poppy this year, when I did the donation box was behind the counter in case kids nicked the money!

I hate Bush hijacking the day to justify the war in Iraq again, its a day for everyone, not just those who support one particular government's policy. Raah!

PS.
Jean Tardieu

Oradour


Oradour n'a plus de femmes
Oradour n'a plus un homme
Oradour n'a plus de feuilles
Oradour n'a plus de pierres
Oradour n'a plus d'église
Oradour n'a plus d'enfants

Plus de fumée plus de rires
Plus de toîts plus de greniers
Plus de meules plus d'amour
Plus de vin plus de chansons.

Oradour, j'ai peur d'entendre
Oradour, je n'ose pas
Approcher de tes blessures
De ton sang de tes ruines,
je ne peux je ne peux pas
Voir ni entendre ton nom.

Oradour je crie et hurle
Chaquefois qu'un coeur éclate
Sous les coups des assassins
Une tête épouvantée
Deux yeux larges deux yeux rouges
Deux yeux graves deux yeux grands
Comme la nuit la folie
Deux yeux de petits enfants:
Ils ne me quitteront pas.

Oradour je n'ose plus
Lire ou prononcer ton nom.

Oradour honte des hommes
Oradour honte éternelle
Nos coeurs ne s'apaiseront
Que par la pire vengeance
Haine et honte pour toujours.

Oradour n'a plus de forme
Oradour, femmes ni hommes
Oradour n'a plus d'enfants
Oradour n'a plus de feuilles
Oradour n'a plus d'église
Plus de fumées plus de filles
Plus de soirs ni de matins
Plus de pleurs ni de chansons.

Oradour n'est plus qu'un cri
Et c'est bien la pire offense
Au village qui vivait
Et c'est bien la pire honte
Que de n'être plus qu'un cri,
Nom de la haine des hommes
Nom de la honte des hommes
Le nom de notre vengeance
Qu'à travers toutes nos terres
On écoute en frissonnant,
Une bouche sans personne,
Qui hurle pour tous les temps.

Translation:
Oradour has no women
Oradour has no men
Oradour has no leaves
Oradour has no stones
Oradour has no church
Oradour has no children
no smoke, no laughter
no roofs, no granaries
no haystacks, no love
no wine, no songs
Oradour I'm frightened of hearing
Oradour I do not dare
approach your wounds
your blood, your ruins
I can't, I cannot
see or hear your name
Oradour I shout and scream
each time that a heart bursts
under the assassins' blows
a terror-stricken face
two wide eyes, two red eyes
two serious eyes, two large eyes
like the night, madness
the two eyes of a small child
they will not leave me;
Oradour I no longer dare
read or pronounce your name
Oradour shame of man
Oradour eternal shame
hatred and shame for ever
Oradour has no shape or form
Oradour, women or men
Oradour has no children
Oradour has no leaves
Oradour has no church
no smoke, no girls
no evenings or mornings
no tears or songs
Oradour is only a cry
And this is the worst insult
to the village that used to live
and surely the worst shame
is to be but a cry,
that a name hated by men
a name of the shame of men
which throughout our land
is heard with trembling
a mouth without a body
which screams for all time.

The German soldiers massacred almost all the inhabitants of Oradour as they retreated from France, knowing they were defeated, so it was a pointless act of insanity of no tactical value, utterly random. Lots of the women and children where burned to death in the church as they sought refuge. Only 2 people escaped, if I remember correctly. The whole village has been preserved as a monument, it is very moving (I've visited it).

[megustaleer]

David Hughes' novel The Pork Butcher (http://www.bookgrouponline.com/forum/showthread.html?p=19623#post19623) is based on the massacre at Oradour. I have posted about it in 20th Century novels

[David]

That's an awful story, Flingo! There's part of me that finds it so hard to believe kids can remain ignorant of what the day is about, and yet having worked with them for many years, another part of me would not be so surprised. I actually hope it was ignorance, because the alternative is too depressing.

Your translation, Claire, is indeed correct.

I have never read 'Oradour' before, Cathy. Thank you for posting it; as ever with the best of these poems, it leaves me shocked, humbled and ashamed.

[Flingo]

I have never read 'Oradour' before, Cathy. Thank you for posting it; as ever with the best of these poems, it leaves me shocked, humbled and ashamed.

And tearful. So simple, yet such voice presenting something most of us could never dream of.

[Cathy]

What I like about the poem Oradour is that is doesn't mention sides, its about the insanity an inhumanity of war rather than those particular soldiers of that nationality carrying it out, its a collective shame, it could be any side. And it really speaks to me about the pain of remembering, the writer can't bear to hear its name but he's written this poem so we have to remember.

Interesting to hear there's a book based on it.

[megustaleer]

Six and a half years later, prompted by having another book by David Hughes to read I found my way back to this thread. In comparing the original poem Oradour to the translation I discovered that half of the final verse was missing, so I have edited it in.