Off for a soldier

[Walsingham]

Right, as some of you know already I decided a while back to put my money where my mouth was and take the Queen's shilling as a lazy fat reservist. I've been through all the selection hurdles so far and am off this weekend for the final tests. This time next week I shall either be in uniform or gorging myself on pizza while not moving an inch and revelling in a new pair of slippers, content to be an old fart.

 

I need your help by way of you suggesting poetry for me to memorise and recite (silently) while on my test. I have always found poetry very settling, and focussing. All things are welcome, and I will be running through them in my head as I get beasted about.

[Sand]

I always found that a Shakespearean Sonnet helps me focus. The iambic pentameter rhythm and the rhyme scheme (both hard and soft) often relaxes my mind while lets me focus on a given task.

 

This is the sonnet I often use. It is Shakespeare's first sonnet:

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beauty's rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory:

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content

And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

 

Simple, to the point, and gets the job done.

[Gfted1]

There once was a man from Nantucket....

[Walsingham]

There once was a man from Nantucket....

 

[Sand]

There once was a man from Nantucket....

He wants poetry, not a lymeric.

 

[Gorgon]

You need to motivate the tetosterone, I suggest the one about eskimo, 'parts', being 'migthy cold'.

[Musopticon?]

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began,

So is it now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old

Or let me die!

The child is father of the man:

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

 

-Will Wordsworth

[Deadly_Nightshade]

How about this:

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

 

Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854

Written 1854

 

 

Half a league half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred:

'Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns' he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

 

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'

Was there a man dismay'd ?

Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do & die,

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

 

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd & thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

 

Flash'd all their sabres bare,

Flash'd as they turn'd in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army while

All the world wonder'd:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro' the line they broke;

Cossack & Russian

Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,

Shatter'd & sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

 

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

While horse & hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

 

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

 

 

Note: This poem, including punctuation, is reproduced from a scan of the poem written out by Tennyson in his own hand in 1864. The scan was made available online by the University of Virginia.

 

Edit:

Edited September 19, 2007 by Deadly_Nightshade

[Rosbjerg]

Lewis Carroll; The Hunting of the Snark: an Agony in Eight Fits

 

Fit the First

 

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,

As he landed his crew with care;

Supporting each man on the top of the tide

By a finger entwined in his hair.

 

 

"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:

That alone should encourage the crew.

Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:

What I tell you three times is true."

 

 

The crew was complete: it included a Boots --

A maker of Bonnets and Hoods --

A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes --

And a Broker, to value their goods.

 

 

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,

Might perhaps have won more than his share --

But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,

Had the whole of their cash in his care.

 

 

There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,

Or would sit making lace in the bow:

And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,

Though none of the sailors knew how.

 

 

There was one who was famed for the number of things

He forgot when he entered the ship:

His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,

And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

 

 

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,

With his name painted clearly on each:

But, since he omitted to mention the fact,

They were all left behind on the beach.

 

 

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because

He had seven coats on when he came,

With three pairs of boots -- but the worst of it was,

He had wholly forgotten his name.

 

-

 

The rest can be found here

[Darth Drabek]

I have just the thing! Might I suggest some Kipling?

 

"If"

 

 

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you

But make allowance for their doubting too,

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

[Walsingham]

All good so far. I already know If. I _am_ English after all, in old fashioned style.

[Sand]

Like that means anything. After all you would be surprise how many Americans couldn't find North America on a clearly labelled globe.

[Enoch]

Some Stephen Crane:

 

"Think as I think," said a man,

"Or you are abominably wicked;

You are a toad."

 

And after I had thought of it,

I said, "I will, then, be a toad."

 

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;

Round and round they sped.

I was disturbed at this;

I accosted the man.

"It is futile," I said,

"You can never -"

 

"You lie," he cried,

And ran on.

 

Should the wide world roll away,

Leaving black terror,

Limitless night,

Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand

Would be to me essential,

If thou and thy white arms were there,

And the fall to doom a long way.

 

(I put them in quote boxes to separate different pieces.)

[SteveThaiBinh]

Towards Peace

 

If the people of the world

Threw down their guns

From the biggest of them

To the very smallest ones

There would be far less danger

Of a stranger

Shooting someone else.

 

My suggestion is that soldiers

And sailors too

Should all be armed with pop-guns

Then they couldn't do

The damage that they do

At present

And life would be

More pleasant.

 

Roland Milk

 

 

For the ironically challenged, I should point out that 'Roland Milk' is the creation of J.B. Morton, a.k.a. Beachcomber, one of Britain's greatest humourists, and is a parody of wishy-washy lefty poets lacking an ounce of intelligence or common sense.

 

[Colrom]

The Land of Counterpane

by Robert Louis Stevenson

 

When I was sick and lay a-bed,

I had two pillows at my head,

And all my toys beside me lay,

To keep me happy all the day.

 

And sometimes for an hour or so

I watched my leaden soldiers go,

With different uniforms and drills,

Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets

All up and down among the sheets;

Or brought my trees and houses out,

And planted cities all about.

 

I was the giant great and still

That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain,

The pleasant land of counterpane.

[Colrom]

Trees

Joyce Kilmer. 1886

[Colrom]

This is the last

 

Disabled by Wilfred Owen

 

 

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,

And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,

Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park

Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,

Voices of play and pleasure after day,

Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

 

 

About this time Town used to swing so gay

When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees

And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,

- In the old times, before he threw away his knees.

Now he will never feel again how slim

Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,

All of them touch him like some queer disease.

 

 

There was an artist silly for his face,

For it was younger than his youth, last year.

Now he is old; his back will never brace;

He's lost his colour very far from here,

Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,

And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,

And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,

After the matches carried shoulder-high.

It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,

He thought he'd better join. He wonders why...

Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.

 

 

Start here>

 

That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,

Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,

He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;

Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears

Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts

For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;

And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;

Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.

And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

 

Stop here>

 

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.

Only a solemn man who brought him fruits

Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,

And do what things the rules consider wise,

And take whatever pity they may dole.

To-night he noticed how the women's eyes

Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.

How cold and late it is! Why don't they come

And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

 

 

Wilfred Owen

[Colrom]

I feel so ashamed. I can't stop myself!

 

Over the Hills

A version of the lyrics by George Farquhar for his play The Recruiting Officer from 1706.

 

Our 'prentice Tom may now refuse

To wipe his scoundrel Master's Shoes,

For now he's free to sing and play

Over the Hills and far away.

Over the Hills and O'er the Main,

To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,

The queen commands and we'll obey

Over the Hills and far away.

We all shall lead more happy lives

By getting rid of brats and wives

That scold and bawl both night and day -

Over the Hills and far away.

Over the Hills and O'er the Main,

To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,

The queen commands and we'll obey

Over the Hills and far away.

Courage, boys, 'tis one to ten,

But we return all gentlemen

All gentlemen as well as they,

Over the hills and far away.

Over the Hills and O'er the Main,

To Flanders, Portugal and Spain,

The queen commands and we'll obey

Over the Hills and far away.

[Fenghuang]

http://www.wordinfo.info/words/index/info/...=C&spage=26

[Walsingham]

Don't let's get too long or too pastoral, chaps. I've only got a couple of days to remember them. So far i like best Disabled, and Over the Hils and Far Away. You may think the first of these rather perverse, but I am hoping the prospect of losing my limbs will spur the use of them.

[Gorgon]

What kind of deal is this, a lot of lying around in a hole in the the ground and yet more marching and shouting.

 

The fitness test ?, cause let me tell you, you aren't gonna have the breath for any poetry mantras.

[Walsingham]

What kind of deal is this, a lot of lying around in a hole in the the ground and yet more marching and shouting.

 

The fitness test ?, cause let me tell you, you aren't gonna have the breath for any poetry mantras.

 

And your opinion is based on...?

 

In my experience running vigorously away from stuff a good poem is just the ticket. it keeps the mind occupied and out of the body's way.

[Gorth]

Vitai Lampada

THERE'S a breathless hush in the Close to-night -

Ten to make and the match to win -

A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play and the last man in.

And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,

But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

 

The sand of the desert is sodden red, -

Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -

The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed his banks,

And England's far, and Honour a name,

But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

 

This is the word that year by year

While in her place the School is set

Every one of her sons must hear,

And none that hears it dare forget.

This they all with a joyful mind

Bear through life like a torch in flame,

And falling fling to the host behind -

"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

 

-- Sir Henry Newbolt

 

(from a large collection of WWI poetry)

[Walsingham]

Gorth, I'm sure it wasn't your intention, but the spirit in that poem may have worked in the Sudan, but abused by a lackwitted doctrine it comprehensively minced an entire generation. Very saddening.

[Gorth]

Gorth, I'm sure it wasn't your intention, but the spirit in that poem may have worked in the Sudan, but abused by a lackwitted doctrine it comprehensively minced an entire generation. Very saddening.

Umm... it was a bit intentional. It was written for the Boer war in South Africa in the 1890's, not Sudan. It may have been abused decades later, but I thought it illustrated the mindset of Victorian England quite well (that and Cricket).