Here War Is Simple by W H Auden

Here war is simple like a monument: A telephone is speaking to a man; Flags on a map assert that troops were sent; A boy brings milk in bowls. There is a plan For living men in terror of their lives, Who thirst at nine who were to thirst at noon, And can be lost and are, and miss their wives, And, unlike an idea, can die too soon. But ideas can be true although men die, And we can watch a thousand faces Made active by one lie: And maps can really point to places Where life is evil now: Nanking. Dachau.

Batter my heart

by John Donne

BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new. I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end, Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue. Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine, But am betroth'd unto your enemie: Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe; Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free, Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

! ! ! !

The Kaleidoscope

by Douglas Dunn

To climb these stairs again, bearing a tray, Might be to find you pillowed with your books, Your inventories listing gowns and frocks As if preparing for a holiday. Or, turning from the landing, I might find My presence watched through your kaleidoscope, A symmetry of husbands, each redesigned In lovely forms of foresight, prayer and hope. I climb these stairs a dozen times a day And, by the open door, wait, looking in At where you died. My hands become a tray Offering me, my flesh, my soul, my skin. Grief wrongs us so. I stand, and wait, and cry For the absurd forgiveness, not knowing why.

Sandra's Mobile

by Douglas Dunn

A constant artist, dedicated to Curves, shapes, the pleasant shades, the feel of colour, She did not care what shapes, what red, what blue, Scorning the dull to ridicule the duller With a disinterested, loyal eye. So Sandra brought her this and taped it up Three seagulls from a white and indoor sky A gift of old artistic comradeship. "Blow on them, Love." Those silent birds winged round On thermals of my breath. On her last night, Trying to stay awake, I saw love crowned In tears, and wooden birds and candlelight. She did not wake again. To prove our love Each gull, each gull, each gull, turned into dove.

A dozen sparrows scuttled on the frost

A dozen sparrows scuttled on the frost. We watched them play. We stood at the window, And, if you saw us, then you saw a ghost In duplicate. I tied her nightgowns bow. She watched and recognized the passers-by. Had they looked up, theyd know that she was illPlease, do not draw the curtains when I dieFrom all the flowers on the windowsill. Its such a shame, she said. Too ill, too quick. I would have liked us to have gone away. We closed our eyes together, dreaming France, Its meadows, rivers, woods and jouissance. I counted summers, our loves arithmetic. Some other day, my love. Some other day.

by Douglas Dunn

REDEMPTION

by George Herbert

HAVING been tenant long to a rich Lord, Not thriving, I resolved to be bold, And make a suit unto him, to afford A new small-rented lease, and cancell th old. In heaven at his manour I him sought : They told me there, that he was lately gone About some land, which he had dearly bought Long since on earth, to take possession. I straight returnd, and knowing his great birth, Sought him accordingly in great resorts ; In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts : At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth Of theeves and murderers : there I him espied, Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.

September Song
!

by Geoffrey Hill

born 19.6.32 - deported 24.9.42 Undesirable you may have been, untouchable you were not. Not forgotten or passed over at the proper time. As estimated, you died. Things marched, sufficient, to that end. Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented terror, so many routine cries. (I have made an elegy for myself it is true) September fattens on vines. Roses flake from the wall. The smoke of harmless fires drifts to my eyes. This is plenty. This is more than enough.

Carrion Comfort by Gerard Manley Hopkins

NOT, Ill not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwistslack they may bethese last strands of man In me r, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan With darksome devouring eyes my bruisd bones? and fan, O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee? Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cher. Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fot trd Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year

!
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

"#$!%&'(#)*$+!by G.M. Hopkins

I CAUGHT this morning mornings minion, kingdom of daylights dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, 5 As a skates heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: sher pld makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-v$+,&--&)'.! 10

As Kingfishers catch fire

by G.M. Hopkins

AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies drw flme; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bells Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selvesgoes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying Wht I do is me: for that I came. say mre: the just man justices; Keps grce: tht keeps all his goings graces; Acts in Gods eye what in Gods eye he is Chrstfor Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of mens faces. !

Gods Grandeur

by G.M. Hopkins

THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears mans smudge and shares mans smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

10

Sunday Morning

by Louis Macneice

Down the road someone is practising scales, The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails, Man's heart expands to tinker with his car For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar; Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now, And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow, Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past, That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme. But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire To tell how there is no music or movement which secures Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.

On his blindness

by John Milton

WHEN I consider how my light is spent E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite.

10

Methought I saw my late espoused saint

Methought I saw my late espoused Saint Brought to me like Alcestus from the grave, Who Jove's great Son to her glad Husband gave, Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint. Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight. But O as to embrace me she enclin'd I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

by John Milton

Anthem1 for doomed youth

by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells2 for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out3 their hasty orisons.4 No mockeries5 now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, The shrill, demented6 choirs of wailing shells; And bugles7 calling for them from sad shires.8 What candles9 may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor10 of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk11 a drawing-down of blinds.12 Notes for students 1 Anthem - perhaps best known in the expression "The National Anthem;" also, an important religious song (often expressing joy); here, perhaps, a solemn song of celebration 2 passing-bells - a bell tolled after someone's death to announce the death to the world 3 patter out - rapidly speak 4 orisons - prayers, here funeral prayers 5 mockeries - ceremonies which are insults. Here Owen seems to be suggesting that the Christian religion, with its loving God, can have nothing to do with the deaths of so many thousands of men 6 demented - raving mad 7 bugles - a bugle is played at military funerals (sounding the last post) 8 shires - English counties and countryside from which so many of the soldiers came 9 candles - church candles, or the candles lit in the room where a body lies in a coffin 10 pallor - paleness 11 dusk has a symbolic significance here 12 drawing-down of blinds - normally a preparation for night, but also, here, the tradition of drawing the blinds in a room where a dead person lies, as a sign to the world and as a mark of respect. The coming of night is like the drawing down of blinds.

DULCE ET DECORUM EST(1) by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares(2) we turned our backs And towards our distant rest(3) 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(4) Of tired, outstripped(5) Five-Nines(6) that dropped behind. Gas!(7) Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets(8) just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime(9) . . . Dim, through the misty panes(10) 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,(11) 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(12) Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest(13) To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.(15) Notes on Dulce et Decorum Est 1. DULCE ET DECORUM EST - the first words of a Latin saying (taken from an ode by Horace). The words were widely understood and often quoted at the start of the First World War. They mean "It is sweet and right." The full saying ends the poem: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - it is sweet and right to die for your country. In other words, it is a wonderful and great honour to fight and die for your country. 2. Flares - rockets which were sent up to burn with a brilliant glare to light up men and other targets in the area between the front lines (See illustration, page 118 of Out in the Dark.) 3. Distant rest - a camp away from the front line where exhausted soldiers might rest for a few days, or longer 4. Hoots - the noise made by the shells rushing through the air

5. Outstripped - outpaced, the soldiers have struggled beyond the reach of these shells which are now falling behind them as they struggle away from the scene of battle 6. Five-Nines - 5.9 calibre explosive shells 7. Gas! - poison gas. From the symptoms it would appear to be chlorine or phosgene gas. The filling of the lungs with fluid had the same effects as when a person drowned 8. Helmets - the early name for gas masks 9. Lime - a white chalky substance which can burn live tissue 10. Panes - the glass in the eyepieces of the gas masks 11. Guttering - Owen probably meant flickering out like a candle or gurgling like water draining down a gutter, referring to the sounds in the throat of the choking man, or it might be a sound partly like stuttering and partly like gurgling 12. Cud - normally the regurgitated grass that cows chew usually green and bubbling. Here a similar looking material was issuing from the soldier's mouth 13. High zest - idealistic enthusiasm, keenly believing in the rightness of the idea 14. ardent - keen 15. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori - see note 1 above.

Sir Walter Raleigh to His Son

by Sir Walter Raleigh

Three things there be that prosper up apace And flourish, whilst they grow asunder far, But on a day, they meet all in one place, And when they meet, they one another mar; And they be these: the wood, the weed, the wag. The wood is that which makes the gallow tree; The weed is that which strings the hangman's bag; The wag, my pretty knave, betokeneth thee. Mark well, dear boy, whilst these assemble not, Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild, But when they meet, it makes the timber rot, It frets the halter, and it chokes the child. Then bless thee, and beware, and let us pray We part not with thee at this meeting day.

Piazza Piece

by John Crowe Ransom

I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small And listen to an old man not at all, They want the young men's whispering and sighing. But see the roses on your trellis dying And hear the spectral singing of the moon; For I must have my lovely lady soon, I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying. I am a lady young in beauty waiting Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss. But what gray man among the vines is this Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream? Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream! I am a lady young in beauty waiting.

Loving in truth and fain in verse

by Phillip Sidney

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain: Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain; I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain: Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burnd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Inventions stay, Invention, Natures child, fled step-dame Studys blows, And others feet still seemd but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite-Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart and write. Loving, and wishing to show my love in verse, So that Stella might find pleasure in my pain, So that pleasure might make her read, and reading make her know me, And knowledge might win pity for me, and pity might obtain grace, I looked for fitting words to depict the darkest face of sadness, Studying clever creations in order to entertain her mind, Often turning others pages to see if, from them, Fresh and fruitful ideas would flow into my brain. But words came out lamely, lacking the support of Imagination: Imagination, natures child, fled the blows of Study, her stepmother: And the writings (feet) of others seemed only alien things in the way. So while pregnant with the desire to speak, helpless with the birth pangs, Biting at my pen which disobeyed me, beating myself in anger, My Muse said to me Fool, look in your heart and write.

The Poet as Hero

by Sigfried Sassoon

You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented, Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented-My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry. You are aware that once I sought the Grail, Riding in armour bright, serene and strong; And it was told that through my infant wail There rose immortal semblances of song. But now I've said good-bye to Galahad, And am no more the knight of dreams and show: For lust and senseless hatred make me glad, And my killed friends are with me where I go. Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs; And there is absolution in my songs.

Shall I Compare Thee (Sonnet 18) by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal Summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Shakespeare

(Sonnet 116) by William

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved

When my love swears that she is made of truth

William Shakespeare When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed: But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O! love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love, loves not to have years told: Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

(Sonnet 138) by

They flee from me

by Sir Thomas Wyatt

They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themself in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewithall sweetly did me kiss And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this? It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved.

Leda and The Swan

by William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower[20] And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?