cygna_hime: Athena is a feminist bitch (Feminist Classicist Bitch)
Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you’d say,
Because I’d like to know that you’re all right.
Tell me, have you found everlasting day,
Or been sucked in by everlasting night?
For when I shut my eyes your face shows pain;
I hear you make some cheery old remark—
I can rebuild you in my brain,
Though you’ve gone out patrolling in the dark.

You hated tours of trenches; you were proud
Of nothing more than having good years to spend;
Longed to get home and join the careless crowd
Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend.
That’s all washed out now. You’re beyond the wire:
No earthly chance can send you crawling back;
You’ve finished with machine-gun fire—
Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack.

Somehow I always thought you’d get done in,
Because you were so desperate keen to live:
You were all out to try and save your skin,
Well knowing how much the world had got to give.
You joked at shells and talked the usual “shop,”
Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine:
With “Jesus Christ! when _will_ it stop?
Three years… It’s hell unless we break their line.”

So when they told me you’d been left for dead
I wouldn’t believe them, feeling it _must_ be true.
Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said
“Wounded and missing”—(That’s the thing to do
When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow,
With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache,
Moaning for water till they know
It’s night, and then it’s not worth while to wake!)

* * * * *

Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to God,
And tell Him that our Politicians swear
They won’t give in till Prussian Rule’s been trod
Under the Heel of England… Are you there? …
Yes … and the War won’t end for at least two years;
But we’ve got stacks of men… I’m blind with tears,
Staring into the dark. Cheero!
I wish they’d killed you in a decent show.
cygna_hime: Xion is in ur fandom, queerin ur text (Xion Queering the Text)
So! In honor of National Poetry Month, and my own frustration with the fact that I can't readily mix poetry with fandom otherwise, I have invented a meme:

Fandom Poetry Meme
Name a fandom, character, pairing, or other fandom-specific noun in the comments, and I will dig up a poem I associate with him/her/it/them.

OR

Post a poem in the comments, and I'll write a drabble around it.

Then post to your own journal so there can be more poetry! Poetry poetry poetry!
cygna_hime: Xion is in ur fandom, queerin ur text (Xion Queering the Text)
This one, I think, is seriously among my favorite poems ever, and one of the best love poems in the history of life. Because love is not, actually, reserved for idealized plastic women. (This was before plastic. But not before idealized plastic women. They were just idealized plastic women suffering from lead poisoning.)

Sonnet CXXX

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
cygna_hime: (Default)
Continuing the tradition of posting poetry, because I don't really have the right to say anything else.

Apologia Pro Pomeate Meo
Wilfred Owen, 1917

I, too, saw God through mud,--
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there --
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off Fear --
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging light and clear
Past the entanglement when hope lay strewn;

And witnessed exultation --
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul.

I have made fellowships --
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

By Joy, whose ribbon slips, --
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
cygna_hime: (Default)
Two poems, one for those who came home...

Does It Matter?
Siegfried Sassoon

Does it matter? --losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter? --losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter? --those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know that you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.


...and one for those who did not.

Anthem for Doomed Youth
Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for those 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 for them from prayers or 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.
cygna_hime: (Default)
It was to write a poem in the style of Catullus 43. Needless to say, it's bitchy.

I really hate badfic, if you couldn't guess )
cygna_hime: (Default)
I realized I hadn't actually used the poll function yet, and in reading for Lit, I ran across a question that bothers me: in the last two lines of the first quatrain of William Blake's poem 'The Tyger', how do you make them rhyme?

[Poll #883569]
cygna_hime: (Default)
Roses are red,
Violets are violet,
You give me a valentine,
I'll circular-file it.

I do love you all, though.
cygna_hime: (Default)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark out 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.

---John McCrae, December 1915




If you don't know why, go find out. If you do know why, remember. Whether you do or not, find another poem and pass it on.

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