Robert Service again...

... well, it has been a while since I put up any poetry... yeah, yeah.. I know you don't like it... but, that is exactly why I put it up here.. just because you don't like it... doesn't mean you don't need it.... yesterday, I spent quite a while sitting on the deck alone with my thoughts... Memorial Day always puts me in a mood... and, usually I want to be alone.. so, I spent the better half of yesterday evening sipping a Scotch.. sitting in the sunshine... and, just thinking... I kept recalling lines from Robert Service... unrelated lines... from different poems... I found myself saying them out loud as they came into my mind... I suppose that if I were a more educated man, Wilfred Owen... or Sassoon would have been more appropriate... but, "Lyrics of a Low Brow" was present instead... Low Brow, indeed..., I leave you today with the foreward of "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man"... penned in 1916... by ambulance driver R.W. Service... once again, people... read it out loud..

I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes
In weary, woeful, waiting times;
In doleful hours of battle-din,
Ere yet they brought the wounded in;
Through vigils of the fateful night,
In lousy barns by candle-light;
In dug-outs, sagging and aflood,
On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood;
By ragged grove, by ruined road,
By hearths accurst where Love abode;
By broken altars, blackened shrines
I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes.

I've solaced me with scraps of song
The desolated ways along:
Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown,
And meadows reaped by death alone;
By blazing cross and splintered spire,
By headless Virgin in the mire;
By gardens gashed amid their bloom,
By gutted grave, by shattered tomb;
Beside the dying and the dead,
Where rocket green and rocket red,
In trembling pools of poising light,
With flowers of flame festoon the night.
Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong
I've cheered my heart with scraps of song.

So here's my sheaf of war-won verse,
And some is bad, and some is worse.
And if at times I curse a bit,
You needn't read that part of it;
For through it all like horror runs
The red resentment of the guns.
And you yourself would mutter when
You took the things that once were men,
And sped them through that zone of hate
To where the dripping surgeons wait;
And wonder too if in God's sight
War ever, ever can be right.

Yet may it not be, crime and war
But effort misdirected are?
And if there's good in war and crime,
There may be in my bits of rhyme,
My songs from out the slaughter mill:
So take or leave them as you will.

by Eric on May 31, 2004 | Bullshit (0) | R W Service
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