Not to long ago in class we were having a discussion about renaissance men. The kind of guy who was into everything from sports and fitness, to music and poetry. Men were not one dimensional people like they seem to be today. Sports, hunting, and trucks seem to what the majority are involved in (at least where I come from.) Poetry, theater, and things of beauty will get you labeled as gay and not a man. Now it should be known that I own a truck, and I coach sports. I believe in strong body equals strong mind. I also think that things of beauty add to your personality as well. Now poetry has never been one of my big things, but lately I have read more and more. I think it is a shame that more men don't get into these things because society has dictated that men don't do that. So I figured I would share a poem by a man named Wilfred Owen. He fought and died in World War I, not the kind of guy most men would figure would write poetry. His poems were in an effort to deal with the things he experienced on the front. However, he was called back to the front in 1918 and he died two weeks before the war ended.
"Anthem for a Doomed Youth"
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
--Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles 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 pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
- Wilfred Owen
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