"The Old Lie: Dulce et Decorum est Pro Patria Mori..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

*clears throat*

e. e. cummings' war poetry.

i sing of olaf. This one always makes me start crying, because it's so horrible.

Look at what a pretty boy he was.

There was one I read a long time ago that I can't find anywhere, and all I remember was communists being killed in the street and how sad it was, and there was one about a boy coming home in a coffin, and why is none of this available on the internet? It's very important, and I want to find it; the book I had it from is at the library now.

There's this one.

I cannot find any more. But where is it?

Here is an essay, instead.

Thursday I'll go to the library and take out that book, I'll type some of them up. And now I am going to read Wilfred Owen, life be damned.

My own war poetry is not as powerful, because it is not as ugly, is not horrible. I can't do that. I want to find his, because his hurt. His made you stop.

Also, Spoon River Anthology:

Knowlt Hoheimer

I WAS the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge.
When I felt the bullet enter my heart
I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail
For stealing the hogs of Curl Trenary,
Instead of running away and joining the army.
Rather a thousand times the county jail
Than to lie under this marble figure with wings,
And this granite pedestal Bearing the words, "Pro Patria."
What do they mean, anyway?

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^^;; C'est moi. *pounces lightly*