A Poem

I found this via.... I forgot. I need a better memory. more about that later.
Anyway, here's a poem.
The poet, Brian Turner, a 39 year old sergeant, in the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, was serving in Iraq, and turned to writing, honing words and meaning, to try make some sense out of the chaos, boredom, pointlessness, the purpose, the blood, bombs and violence, the sunshine and quiet, the beauty, and despair.
It's glib to say Turner reminds me of the war poems of Sassoon, Wilfrid Owen, et al, but he does. Crouched in a dusty hot place, he is their brother, those men who scratched their words in the cold mud of the Somme trenches almost a hundred years before. Not ideologically a supporter of the war, but a soldier, accepting his duty to share the burden with his comrades, trying to portray, to make understandable the impossible contradictions that war zones pose.

He sees it for us.

Brian Turner

At dusk, bats fly out by the hundreds.

Water snakes glide in the ponding basins

behind the rubbled palaces. The mosques

call their faithful in, welcoming

the moonlight as prayer.

Today, policemen sunbathed on traffic islands

and children helped their mothers

string clothes to the line, a slight breeze

filling them with heat.

There were no bombs, no panic in the streets.

Sgt. Gutierrez didn't comfort an injured man

who cupped pieces of his friend's brain

in his hands; instead, today,

white birds rose from the Tigris.

The Al Harishma Weapons Market

At midnight, steel shutters

slide down tight. Feral cats slink

in the periphery of the streetlamp's

dim cone of light. Inside, like a musician

swaddling a silver-plated trumpet,

Akbar wraps an AK-47 in cloth.

Grease guns, pistols, RPGs --

he slides them all under the countertop.

Black marketeer or insurgent --

an American death puts food on the table,

more cash than most men earn in an entire year.

He won't let himself think of his childhood friends --

those who wear the blue uniforms

which bring death, dying from barrels

he may have oiled in his own hands.

Akbar stirs the chai,

then carries his sleeping four-year-old,

Habib, to bed under glow-in-the-dark

stars arranged on the ceiling. Late at night

when gunfire frightens them both,

Habib cries for his father, who tells him

It's just the drums, a new music,

and the tracery of lights in the sky

he retraces on the ceiling, showing the boy

how each bright star travels

from this dark place, to the other.

© 2005 by Brian Turner (Alice James Books, Farmington, Maine)

More

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till 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 disappointed shells that dropped 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 floundering 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.

(Dulce et.. Latin: 'Sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country', a quotation from Horace.)

---

With mustard gas the effects did not become apparent for up to twelve hours. But then it began to rot the body, within and without. The skin blistered, the eyes became extremely painful and nausea and vomiting began. Worse, the gas attacked the bronchial tubes, stripping off the mucous membrane. The pain was almost beyond endurance and most cases had to be strapped to their beds. Death took up to four or five weeks. A nurse wrote:

I wish those people who write so glibly about this being a holy war and the orators who talk so much about going on no matter how long the war lasts and what it may mean, could see a case--to say nothing of ten cases--of mustard gas in its early stages--could see the poor things burnt and blistered all over with great mustard-coloured suppurating blisters, with blind eyes . . . all sticky and stuck together, and always fighting for breath, with voices a mere whisper, saying that their throats are closing and they know they will choke."

This passage is from John Ellis, Eye-Deep in Hell: Trench Warfare in World War I, (1976), pp. 66-7.

And then, a reminder that we never learn.

Aftermath, by Siegfried Sassoon.
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.

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?'

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.

Siegfried Sassoon, 1920

Mental Floss

There is no work in progress. Soubriquet's brain has absconded, and he has decided to sleep until it returns. Perhaps tomorrow. The last few days have been hard for the small number of brain cells doing all the work.They need sleep.

Rabbit Crimes.

No snow here yet..

I've got a cold mug of tea.

That's what happens when you start blogging I think.. next I'll be forgetting to wash or eat.
I just had to alter the Pink Floyd thing. Someone bypassed the comments, sent a kneemail to tell me that autoplay music on a site is annoying. And she's right. Because we don't all like the same music, and because you might want to read without distraction.
And even if you put the music there in the first place you, (or in this case me) become the custodian of the site and have to visit regularly to sweep, mop floors and wipe down the walls. (Whichever of you put those sticky fingerprints on the lightswitch, Yeuch!) You soon find that the same track, starting, as you open the door, gets a little old.
I'm in cogitation mode at present on what to do next. I think hot tea, followed by a sot of keyboerd bashing.
I'll play myself some music upon the electric phonograph whilst I ponder.

Echoes. By Pink Floyd.

Pinging

Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine.
And no one showed us to the land
And no one knows the wheres or whys
But something stirs and something tries
And starts to climb toward the light
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to move on
And no one forces down our eyes
And no one speaks and no one tries
And no one flies around the sun
Cloudless every day you fall upon my waking eyes
Inviting and inciting me to rise
And through the window in the wall
Comes streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning
And no one sings me lullabies
And no one makes me close my eyes
And so I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky

Of Mice and Me

Mousies.
My old house had them, it was an old stone cottage, near two overgrown fields, every winter the field mice would look through the windows at the roaring log fire, assess the cheese wrappers in the bin, and move in. Tiny grey shadows flickered at the edge of vision, the kitchen was ransacked, as only mice know how. Flour and pasta spilled across the shelves, mouse droppings on the table.
The bloody parrot thought mice were for his amusement. The bastard watched calmly, mumbling quietly to himself, as the little grey despoilers ransacked his stash of sunflower seeds. They cached them in my sofa, after gnawing a hole in the back. BASTARDS!
My dog ignored them.
I borrowed a cat, but the cat sat on the mat. and sat. and sat. I feared the cat was receiving mouse pay for turning a blind eye. I tried with-holding cat food. The cat just raided the dog's food. After a serious one to one discussion the cat found itself stripped of rank and privileges, and given a dishonourable discharge from the service. Returned to unit, unsatisfactory conduct when faced with the enemy.

Serious discussion with the dog stalled when he looked me in the eye, yawned, and fell asleep.
The long ago girlfriend was vegetarian and begged me not to deploy the mousetraps with snapping jaws, so at a green festival, I bought a humane mouse trap, which allegedly caught them unharmed, to be released near a cheese shop. But no, it caught none, so after arguments and tears, the 'little nipper' mousetrap was deployed.
The first evening it averaged a mouse every twenty minutes.
Disposing of bloody mangled corpses saddened me, but having to hang all my foodstuffs from the ceiling enraged me, so more nippers were deployed along the western front. The mice abandoned all forms of contraception and set to producing huge families in the attic and below the floor. At night, they owned the house, and gnawed full time at any object that could be turned into mouse furnishings.
Angry hurling of books at the bedroom corner had little effect.
The girlfriend tended to use the bedroom floor as a giant laundry-basket/wardrobe, so the discovery of a palm sized hole in the bosom of the little black dress sparked something that might be described as fury, anger, rage of biblical proportion-had I stayed to describe it, rather than fleeing the premises on some flimsy excuse.
When I returned, things had been thrown at the walls, a big pile of clothing was bagged for disposal, and a large can of poison was on the table. For a while I ate only food from tins, which I opened myself. But I was not the target. My creature-friendly lover was putting out little bowls of choc chip and warfarin for those poor, harmless little rodents.

They loved it, they lined up to eat poison, which must have driven them to write their friends and invite them to visit too. Lines of mice waited patiently for their turn at the poison, "Bring it on!" they roared.
My mother had a catalogue, one of those things aimed at elderly people, full of things you never knew you needed, like um, devices for sucking the air out of frozen food bags, or egg timers that predict the weather, or overshoes that will not slip on wet leaves.. and ultrasonic mouse deterrents. She said she would buy one for us to try. I said it would not work, she replied that as she was going to buy it I should shut up and stop being so negative.

It arrived in the mail, a 6 volt battery, or mains supply was required. As it worked off a battery, I decided to give it a try, I put the box in my pocket and visited the Living World Pet Superstore.... Casually sauntering into the room full of pet rats, hamsters, gerbils, mice, rabbits,... I fumbled for the battery. CHAOS! the place erupted, furry animals ran in circles, squeaked madly, threw themselves at the bars. The humans were stunned, looking around- had a cat walked in?
but the battery was off, the furry beasts resumed their normal demeanour. I had to check again. CHAOS!

The ultrasonic deterrent was thus installed, at Rose Bank Cottage, and the stealers of cheese, despoilers of dresses, the attic nesters and carpet chewers packed their bags and left, a long column, chanting mouse marching songs, from our door toward the far horizons.
All that carnage, little mangled mousy corpses, over so long, was unnecessary, had I only known that ultrasonics upset the nervous systems of rodents,
The dog, by the way, could hear it, but was untroubled. His food supply had never been threatened, he could sleep through any scratching or squeaking, and had no possessions of interest to the small squeaky community.
I found this lack of support annoying, but somewhat tempered by the dog's belief that I am god. When not sleeping, his waking hours were spent awaiting my miracles, like the opening of any package containing food, or the magical making of things to fly and bounce, that can be chased and caught by a dog, and the provision of a roaring fire, in front of which a dog can sleep.
The current demesne also had mice, damn their furry hearts, so out I went to a well known electronics store, name begins map, ends lins, bought ultrasonic plug-in things, no more noises in the night, flickers of grey, mouseshit in the cupboards.
Internet research, interestingly, tells me these things don't work. But the mice have moved out. That's enough for me.

(Originally posted to comments at little red boat December 31, 2005 04:46 PM )

Loituma

Loituma, from the album, 'Things of Beauty', Ievan Polka.



Nuapurista kuulu se polokan tahti
jalakani pohjii kutkutti.
Ievan äiti se tyttöösä vahti
vaan kyllähän Ieva sen jutkutti,
sillä ei meitä silloin kiellot haittaa
kun myö tanssimme laiasta laitaan.
Salivili hipput tupput täppyt
äppyt tipput hilijalleen.

Ievan suu oli vehnäsellä
ko immeiset onnee toevotti.
Peä oli märkänä jokaisella
ja viulu se vinku ja voevotti.
Ei tätä poikoo märkyys haittaa
sillon ko laskoo laiasta laitaan.
Salivili hipput...............

Now the full translation, English by Susan Sinisalo
The sound of a polka drifted from my neighbor's
and set my feet a-tapping oh!
Ieva's mother had her eye on her daughter but
Ieva she managed to fool her, you know.
'Cause who's going to listen to mother saying no
when we're all busy dancing to and fro!

Ieva was smiling, the fiddle it was wailing
as people crowded round to wish her luck.
Everyone was hot but it didn't seem to bother
the handsome young man, the dashing buck.
'Cause who's going to mind a drop of sweat
when he's all busy dancing to and fro!

Ieva's mother she shut herself away
in her own quiet room to hum a hymn.
Leaving our hero to have a spot of fun
in a neighbor's house when the lights are dim.
'Cause what does it matter what the old folks say
when you're all busy dancing to and fro!

When the music stopped then the real fun began
and that's when the laddie fooled around.
When he took her home, when the dancing was over
her mother angrily waiting they found.
But I said to her, Ieva, now don't you weep
and we'll soon be dancing to and fro!

I said to her mother now stop that noise
or I won't be responsible for what I do.
If you go quietly and stay in your room
you won't get hurt while your daughter I woo.
'Cause this fine laddie is a wild sort of guy
when he's all busy dancing to and fro!

One thing I tell you is you won't trap me,
no, you won't find me an easy catch.
Travel to the east and travel to the west but
Ieva and I are going to make a match.
'Cause this fine laddie ain't the bashful sort
when he's all busy dancing to and fro.

Everyday Entertainments for Small Beetles

Don't worry, the newness will soon wear off, and I'l become a desultory blogger with years between posts. But just now I'm fooling myself into thinking I'm learning a new skill, and that counts as education and self-improvement. Thereby rendering messing about with a computer a positive act, rather than the default activity of a bloke who's avoiding doing domestic chores and is oblivious to encroaching chaos in his home.
So in my self improving strolls about the internet, I came across a neat little film, about a little red beetle. (Coccinellidae. 40 different species in Britain alone.)
Here in England, it would be called a Ladybird. We like them, they keep or roses free of aphids.
Children sing:
"Ladybird ladybird fly away home,
Your house in on fire and your children are gone,
All except one and that's little Ann,
For she crept under the frying pan."
The Ladybird in the film is not one who would fall for that cruel joke though.


Minuscule - Ladybug - The funniest home videos are here>