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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out 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 gas-shells dropping softly behind.

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.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, 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
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

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Sun’s Shadow

Relentlessly pursued through the hourglass
Grain crashes into grain as I peer round
Her phoenix pace unquenched; yet cannot pass--
Cannot draw near, cannot fall back, this hound

Sister Sisyphus, indomitable,
Ever-conquered, ever-weary, she bleeds--
Heroically

Betrayed by three, that fate so treacherous
Born in the shadow of the sun, she sees
Celestial globes, as old Copernicus
Oh precious heretic, they orbit thee

Sister Sisyphus, indomitable,
Ever-conquered, ever-weary, she bleeds--
Heroically

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Poetry is something I have never learned to appreciate.

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Eggshells and Egos are the queerest stuff
Fragile, unyielding and recalcitrant
A feather or a puff of air will crush
And dashed to bits, are they, when words are blunt

A whisper of a crack perceived, a stance
Unpalatable to the brittle ear
And when there is a sleight or look askance
Their pain producing, in profusion, tears

Eggshells and Egos would do well to learn
The importance of elasticity
For when community is what we yearn
Eggshells need “more vinegar than honey”

I would that they might speak their peace
And abscond the fortress of passivities
Aggression knowing not its name must cease
The quest for martyrdom it vainly seeks

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