I'm sure most of you guys can't be bothered or don't like poetry (or both) but, for those of you who do, show us yours and your interperetation would be nice but isn't required.
My absolute favourite poet is Wilfred Owen, a soldier in World War One who wrote mostly about conflict and life as it was for them.
One of my faves is:
Asleep - Wilfred Owen
Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
Of the aborted life within him leaping,
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.
And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
From the intruding lead, like ants on track.
Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
And these winds' scimitars,
-Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
Confuses more and more with the low mould,
His hair being one with the grey grass
Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!
Pretty self-explanatory but the reason I like it so much is because of the way it provides a sound argument to such an emotional thing, essentially saying it's alright that he died because he has peace, which those soldiers still alive do not.
Also, I love the way he writes. It's not ambiguous, his point is clear, he isn't too verbose but still expresses himself with a lot of class and flow.
SOMEONE ELSE'S TURN NOW.
My absolute favourite poet is Wilfred Owen, a soldier in World War One who wrote mostly about conflict and life as it was for them.
One of my faves is:
Asleep - Wilfred Owen
Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
Of the aborted life within him leaping,
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.
And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
From the intruding lead, like ants on track.
Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
And these winds' scimitars,
-Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
Confuses more and more with the low mould,
His hair being one with the grey grass
Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!
Pretty self-explanatory but the reason I like it so much is because of the way it provides a sound argument to such an emotional thing, essentially saying it's alright that he died because he has peace, which those soldiers still alive do not.
Also, I love the way he writes. It's not ambiguous, his point is clear, he isn't too verbose but still expresses himself with a lot of class and flow.
SOMEONE ELSE'S TURN NOW.