♫ I'm up in the woods ♫ I'm down on my mind ♫ I'm building a still ♫ To slow down the time ♫ ~ Bon Iver

Why is this so funny? I have no idea. On other points Merry late Christmas and a Happy freaking New Year! Whooo. And on other news, I'm tired but I'm wearing a pretty shirt and pretty necklace. It makes me feel happy. ~Fiona

Poetry in a Tube

To: The World
From: Connie


              Nails


I’m trying not to bite my nails:

I’m trying oh so very hard.

I do not want to, for I know

It’s vile and disgusting, so

I’m trying oh so very hard—

I’m trying not to bite my nails.

I need to find a better way—

A different pastime I may try.

I need to try out something new

So that my fingers I’ll not chew.

This poem is the reason why

My nails are not as short today.

The Old Lie

          Wilfred Owen’s poem, “Dulce et Decorum est,” questions and denounces the old lie, “Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori,” which means, as Owen translates, “It is sweet and meet to die for one’s country.” This lie is harmful to both future soldiers and those who have experienced the ugly reality of warfare. In “Dulce et Decorum est,” Owen does not portray the soldiers as heroic. He uses irony, a dream motif, and other poetic devices to reveal the lie that has tricked the soldiers in his poem. 

          The last thoughts of Owen’s soldiers “are not of joy at having but one life to give to their country,” says Lutz: they are actually “frightened men in pain, dying gruesomely.” The reason these men, “bent double, like old beggars under sacks, / Knock-kneed, coughing like hags…” (1-2), are still fighting is because they do not want to die, so “they fight aimlessly for life [with]...no comprehension of a righteous cause or a meaning behind their sacrifice” (Lutz). Not only do they “fight aimlessly for life,” as Lutz points out, they are also “bereft of all their senses [and]…exhausted to the point where their fatigue intoxicates them” (Moran). The soldiers “went lame; all blind; / Drunk with fatigue; deaf” (6-7) and when they spring into action in response to a gas attack, they are clumsy and slow: “An ecstasy of fumbling, / Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;” (9-10). Lutz says that Owen’s goal is for his readers to see “the unnaturalness of war [and] its nightmarish qualities.” The picture Owen paints is certainly not an honorable one, but it is painfully realistic.
          Owen first implements irony in his title. With the phrase “Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori” in mind, the reader is likely to expect a poem about heroism and patriotism, but instead, they read lines like this: 

“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” (1-8). 

"The Germans,” Moran comments, “are never mentioned by name in the poem, because…they are not the real enemy”; the enemy is the war itself and the horrible conditions that the soldiers live through. “The final, awful irony,” Moran says, “is that Owen himself died fighting in World War I, a week before the armistice was declared.”
          “We see poets trying to respond to unprecedented harrowing and horrific experiences before they had had time to achieve technical mastery,” Heaney says, “and writing in circumstances that prevented their acquiring it” (Kendall). Although Owen’s poem has mixed reviews concerning skill, he is merely trying to capture the horror he experienced. Horror is the main emotion in “Dulce et Decorum est,” but it does not begin that way. Everything is slow and dead until the gas attack throws the speaker of the poem into a panic:

“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” (9-14). 

This panic stays with the reader as Owen shifts from the war to his dreams. It does not matter that the war is done and over, because the dreams are just as real and horrific to the speaker as when it all happened: “In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, / He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning” (15-16). Although the speaker knows he should separate himself emotionally from the situation, Hughes asserts that he “cannot simply do so, both because of his inevitable sympathy for him and…[his need] to protect himself physically from” the soldier whom he never names. The anonymity of the soldier is important because, despite not knowing his name, the speaker still has recurrent nightmares about “the man repeatedly attempting to pull off Owen’s own mask” (Hughes). The dream motif, Lutz explains, describes the “fate of those who survive. [Owen] deliberately stayed up late in order to shorten his sleeping hours.”
          The rhyme scheme of the poem is consistent throughout, until “the two line stanza that mentions Owen’s dreams” (Miller). The portion concerning the dream motif is “the only part,” Miller says, “that deviates from the stricter rhyme scheme of the rest of his poem.” Owen also repeats the word drowning, instead of rhyming with it—“As under a green sea, I saw him drowning / … / He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning” (14-16)—which gives the dream motif repetition, much like the recurrence of the dream itself.

          These two lines appeared in a draft of “Dulce et Decorum est” to describe the man while he was dying in front of the speaker’s eyes: “Think how once his face was like a bud, / Fresh as a country rose, and keen, and young” (Welland). It is interesting that Owen removed these lines from the final because, before his war experience, Owen often wrote poetry like this that included themes of beauty and romance. However, this is also from before he decided that his “subject is War, and the pity of War…[that] all a poet can do today is warn… [and that] that is why the true Poets must be truthful” (Furtak). After Owen “experienced the war,” Furtak explains, “[he] was incapable of writing like [before]…it gave an atrociously sweet and tender representation of a painful and ugly reality…To have only fond memories of a horrible war, one must selectively forget many bitter experiences.” Furtak explains that to continue writing after experiencing war, one would have to “[alter] one’s own emotional memories in order to ignore whatever does not arouse feelings of sweet tender sentimentality” because dying, whether it be for one’s country or not, “is anything but sweet.” Alteration of memories happens often, Furtak continues, because “old soldiers fondly remember the camaraderie of a campaign and forget the terror, bloodshed, and death that surrounded them.” Those who tell their children that patriotic death is honorable, Owen believes, are lying to themselves and their children.

“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” (21-24). 

These horrific images—“blood…gargling,” “froth-corrupted lungs,” “obscene…cancer,” “bitter… cud,” “vile, incurable sores”—all describe the mouth and tongue of the dying soldier. Owen describes the tongue as innocent. Compare the innocence of the man’s tongue to the tongues of those who speak the Old Lie, and it is evident that the liar does not suffer, but the innocent. “The truth happens to be brutal, and it would be a distortion to give it a different coloring,” Furtak asserts. “Poets who do not give a clear or true picture of what they are writing about are lying to themselves and their readers” (Furtak). It is the lie and the distortions that are harmful to soldiers; perhaps the dying man came to war looking for the honor that he was told came with it.
          There is a clear difference, Draper declares, “between [reality] and the falsified image of war cultivated for the benefit of youth by an ignorant and unthinking patriotism. [The lie] is basically propaganda” (80-81). Owen successfully discredits this propaganda in his poem with his clever usage of irony and other poetic devices. He proves through his images of horror that it is not sweet and meet to die for one’s country, but rather that it is painful and horrific to fight in a war at all. If those who told the Old Lie knew and saw what Owen did, they “…would not tell with such high zest / To children ardent for some desperate glory, / The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori” (25-28).

Works Cited 

Draper, Ronald. An Introduction to Twentieth-Century Poetry in English. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1999. Print.

Furtak, Rick Anthony. “Poetics of Sentimentality.” Philosophy and Literature 26 (2002): 207-215. Rpt. in Poetry Criticism. Ed. Michelle Lee. Vol. 102. Detroit: Gale, 2010. Literature Resource Center. Web. 11 Apr. 2011.

Hughes, John. "Owen's 'Dulce et Decorum Est'." Explicator 64.3 (Spring 2006): 160-162. Rpt. in Poetry Criticism. Ed. Michelle Lee. Vol. 102. Detroit: Gale, 2010. Literature Resource Center. Web. 4 Apr. 2011.

Kendall, Tim. “Wilfred Owen’s Concern.” Modern English War Poetry. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. 46-64. Rpt. in Poetry Criticism. Ed. Michelle Lee. Vol. 102. Detroit: Gale, 2010. Literature Resource Center. Web. 11 Apr. 2011.

Lutz, Kimberly. "Overview of 'Dulce et Decorum Est'." Poetry for Students. Ed. Michael L. LaBlanc. Vol. 10. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 4 Apr. 2011.

Miller, Tyrus. “Overview of ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’.” Poetry for Students. Ed. Michael L. LaBlanc. Bol. 10. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 6 Apr. 2011.

Moran, Daniel. "Overview of 'Dulce et Decorum Est'." Poetry for Students. Ed. Michael L. LaBlanc. Vol. 10. Detroit: Gale Group, 2001. Literature Resource Center. Web. 4 Apr. 2011.

Owen, Wilfred. “Dulce et Decorum Est” The Compact Bedford Introduction to Literature: Reading, Thinking, Writing. Eighth Edition. Ed. Michael Meyer. Boston, Massachusetts: Bedford/St. Martin’s. 2009. 671-72. Print.

Welland, Dennis. “The Impact of War on Owen’s Poetry.” Wilfred Owen: A Critical Study. London: Chatto & Windus, 1978. 48-61. Rpt. in Poetry Criticism. Ed. Michelle Lee. Vol. 102. Detroit: Gale, 2010. Literature Resource Center. Web. 6 Apr. 2010.

            Song: Driftwood by Underoath

            Quote: "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." - E.L. Doctorow

"Commander" Entry for the Broker's Game.

“Com---r- Comm--der! Commander!”

Second crouched in front of the commander, eye-to-eye, calling his rank. At a foot and a half above him, Second shouldn’t be on his level of sight. The fallen leader stares into Faithful’s eyes. Weren’t we flying? Why… when did we land? He clutches the grass as another band of nausea grips him, causing him to retch on the ground. Oh… that’s right. She’s gone. How? Why? He calls to her, but she does not respond. “My Queen! Hear me! Please! What are your commands??”

Silence. The Hive has cut him off. Yet worse still… the abandonment means he has somehow failed.

No… her presence is still there… Why can’t I reach her?

The smell of fear and uncertainty radiates from his ranks. His faithful Second stood by him, commanding calm and patience to the others. She has abandoned me. Did she abandon Second as well? His ranks’ thoughts wash over him, a mere trickle of water compared to the Hive’s connection:

“Why are we stopping?”

“What’s wrong with Commander?”

“We are too close to the enemy for this! We will be spotted!”

“So, who are we following?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Quiet! Second is still by his side.”

When one spoke, one did so in connection with all below, and the Queen hears the thoughts of the leaders. Only… She wasn’t here anymore. And when the Queen rejected a leader, the second in command takes his place, so why was Faithful still at his side?

“Second. I am no longer needed. Continue the mission.”

“Sir. I am not in connection; I am still Second.”

“What? I do not understand… She does not abandon whole companies!”

Nausea subsiding, his fear was beginning to show, and the others had grown deathly silent. Yet this very silence was what terrified him most.

“Sir. This may be of the enemy’s chaos. The mission can still be completed.”

“She needs to be informed! One should return to report directly at least!”

He fought to regain his mind from the edge of panic. He clung to Faithful’s every word.

“We cannot. The scouts at the Bridge say the opening has been closed and will not reopen until two rotations’ time. We have until then. … Are you not in connection with them either Sir?”

“Scout. Status report.”

Nothing.

“Bridge Scout! Reply!”

He could not even find their presence in the void.He turned his mind away from the silence. I cannot allow this to hinder the mission! We will fix this at the Hive afterwards.

“No. I am not. I am in connection with only these I see. Second, send your three to scout ahead as planned. We will complete the mission.Second bowed his approval:

“Sir!”

_____________________

Second’s scouts did well. They had found a weak point in the enemy’s defenses and made quick work of an opening. In short time, and with no alerts sounded, the twelve slipped into the strange fortress. The place was cramped. Only three drones could comfortably fly in the passageways, and they were lined with a cold grey material. Many sharp-angled areas jutted off from the passageway. Each had to be searched, but no enemies were found. Room after room of blue-lighted boxes and flashing colors illuminated the cold place. Time was stretching out, and still the place stayed silent. Commander was at a loss. There were no collected memories of such a place as this. Neither could he feel the presence of any creature other than his eleven.

“Split up into your teams. Keep a look out. Do not rely solely on detecting their presence!”

Commander and Forward, one of Second’s prized scouts, were the last to deviate into a room, putting them the furthest into the sector. Boxes filled the dark room, and on the far left, a soft glow marked a second open doorway.

Second had found something. His caution seeped through the connection.

“Commander. The third room on the right of the main passage connects to a wider area and a second corridor. We’ve also found an opening leading to a deeper floor.”

“Understood. Take three teams to assist, and another to stand as lookout.”

“Aye Sir.”

His drones were confused and curious of this place; overly cautious, they sent all information straight to Commander, filling his senses with all they found. Forward moved across the cold floor, seemingly lost in curiosity of the room. “Keep your wits about you Forward.” He nodded in reply as he checked himself. “Check these boxes; they look familiar... I’m going to secure the next opening. Commander crossed into the next box-filled room and finding it devoid of enemies, continued into the next doorway after confirming locations with the team. Good. No more doors here- this last room is bare and empty. He backtracked into the second storeroom to return to Forward. Suddenly, alarms sounded, and Commander was grabbed from behind.

“Retreat! Everyone out NOW!” He yelled as he rammed himself against the wall, pinning the enemy between himself and the metallic surface, giving him just enough time to send bolts of energy through his own body, effectively frying the soft-bodied enemy against the wall. Chaos erupted. Shouts of battle came from another team across the mental connection, but they were quickly cut off into a deathly silence. Commander called for Second’s location, but there was no response from Faithful. By the time he reached the room where he had left Forward, the door had been sealed shut. He sent commands to the rest, specifically ordering Second not to wait for him.

Searching for an escape, he returned to the last and empty room. Here, the Commander froze, his eyes fixed on a creature he had never seen before, with no hint as to how he had arrived. A two-legged creature, easily triple Commander’s height, stood in the center of the room. His eyes of black and gold commanded attention, and he held himself as one with cold authority. Air escaped the commander as the collected memories from drones of the Hive reminded him of just how strong a foe faced him.

“You…” Commander, alone and trapped, stared at the central power of the enemy. “You are the Death King.”

The King calmly traversed the distance between them; his white bone cape reflected the blue glow from his patterned arms and torso. He lowered his gaze to look upon the drone. “I think you have me confused with someone else. I am called the Broker.”

“You’re… not the King?”

The Broker sighed and, turning to an obviously more interesting imperfection in the wall, blandly replied, “No.”

With the Broker’s interest elsewhere, Commander desperately searched for an exit; but with the only known exit blocked and his wings mangled, there was no way he would be able to escape this creature even if there was a way out… let alone make it to the Bridge without being spotted by others who wouldn’t hesitate to kill on sight. If he had time… but there was no time.

“Drone. Are you ready to listen to me now?” The enemy turned his head to look at him, his hands clasped behind him. “I am the one who cut you off from your people, and I can control it at will.”

Commander’s heart sank. Impossible. If he was indeed telling the truth and the enemy had power to do this, then the Hive would never be able to rise to reclaim the land. “For what purpose have you done this? What do you want!?”

A spark lit up the Broker’s face. His face contorted into a odd shape and he laughed, showing bright white teeth. “Yes!” he exclaimed, suddenly becoming animated. “I was hoping you would ask! You see, I am hosting a challenge, and I want you to join. If you win, I will grant you a wish- any wish of your choosing. Naturally, as with all worthwhile games, there is an entry fee.” He showed his teeth and laughed again. “Of course, I have already collected your payment. Otherwise your choice would have been made for you, and we can’t have that now can we?” He crouched down to eye level and held out a pale green stone in his right hand. “See?”

Commander focused on the stone, and to his dismay he could faintly hear his Queen calling to him. …and Faithful! Faithful was refusing to retreat without him in the company.

“NO! Second, you fool! Get out of here! They’ll kill you if you stay!”

The Broker laughed again. “They cannot hear you Little Commander. I have locked you away from them, and have shut the door so we will not have to entertain any more of your soft-bodied friends. Now… do you understand what I am offering?”

The drone shook with anger as he glared at the Broker with his cursed white teeth. “This little game of yours. It is a battle?”

The Broker stood and grinned. “You could say that, although it is not written in the rules that you must kill anyone. You just have to be on top, preferably alive. I’ll not save your tail a second time. The competitors are creatures I doubt you have ever seen the likes of before, and they each have a story. I am sure you will find it a most intriguing game.”

“…and the wish. We want the Hive to have complete safety on land enough to thrive. We want life the way it was, before these blood-thirsty thieves came.”

“Hmm. If that is what you wish… yes, that could be arranged.”

“and… when I win your game, you’ll connect me back to them?”

The Broker stood up and sighed again, waving his hand. “Yes, yes. Of course I will, as I said I would.”

“I accept your offer- and I curse your name!” Commander shouted and brought himself up as tall as he could stand, his hands crackling with electricity. This creature made him sick. He had no right to boss him around. He was not Queen!

The Broker laughed and locked eyes with him, his smile fading. “Oh there will be plenty of that soon enough, I am sure. Are you sure about the wish?”

Commander paused. “What’re you getting at?”

“The wish you chose- that is your Hive’s desire, but is it yours?”

“You’ve taken my desire. I’ll get it back when I win.”

The creature shrugged. “Very well. Now be gone, stinging serpent! Let us see just how long you will last.”

The room jumped to life as light erupted from the Broker’s patterned skin, gaining speed and strength as it encircled the drone. Commander closed his eyes and ran through a quick plan of action for the other side. Sharp pain jolted him back and he found himself whole again amidst the long-dead remains of trees. No, not quite whole. He was completely cut off from the Hive now. Not even a slight hint of the Queen’s presence could be felt. Shaking, he shot high into the air to survey the broken landscape. “This is the only way the Hive will survive. I will win my Queen’s freedom!”

____________________________________________________________________________

"A father to the fatherless and a judge for the widows, is God in His holy habitation. He setteth the alone ones in a family; He leads out the prisoners into prosperity, only the rebellious dwell in a parched land." -Psalm68

Plant of recognition: Hellebore (aka: Lenten Rose). Evergreen leaves and long lasting blooms in the winter. A good pick-me-up in the bleak winter.