Day 6: Write about >> this piece of artwork <<: its creation, subject matter, period or the artist's perspective.
War is stupid.
Those who know me would agree that I generally try not to make sweeping statements, or those which could lead to confrontation or a war of words (except with My Person, because, you know, if you can't share extreme and overblown views with the person your soul is intertwined with, then what the actual). I'm pretty open to debate and sometimes will even play Devil's Advocate, just for the hell of the intellectual ping-pong.
Regardless, I do not even care to argue this particular topic. It doesn't matter how intelligent you (think you) are, I'll say it again: War is stupid.
I believe that everybody has their (or a couple of them) flare-points. Topics or opinions that, no matter how balanced and reasonable the person is, will inflame them and almost in a sentence drive them to that cul-de-sac of the debate: BECAUSE IT JUST IS! It's just wrong, or it's just immoral, or it's just the way it is. These are all argument-enders. There's no talking it out with a person who resorts to this kind of statement to explain their point of view: either there isn't anything else behind that drywall, or it's something they cannot communicate in words (which doesn't mean it isn't a valid point, take Faith for example - whole other blog post).
Anyways, I digress, the topic of War is one of my flare-points. When I was in high school one of our set-work poems was Wilfred Owen's 'Dulce et Decorum Est'. I remember being very, very angry throughout this entire portion of the school term. In case you're not familiar with this beautifully constructed (and timeless) piece of art, here you go:
'Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our 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,
Obscene as cancer, 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.'
The final line of this poem is attributed to Roman poet Horace, and the Latin translates to English as "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country".
There isn't much more that I can write that encapsulates the futility and egomaniacal concept of War, as well as this piece does. And to be clear: I am not talking about defending one's home (country etc.) from invading forces - that is not an act of War, that is an act of self-preservation, which is deeply programmed within each and every human being. I am talking about the offensive act of waging War on another person/nation/belief/peoples/species for the satiation of a whopper-sized power trip (or in so-called "defense" of one's beliefs).
If everybody just calmed the *expletive* down, became just a smidge more mindful (and maybe hugged someone), we'd all see the absolute absurdity of War.
You see, I have to get angry about it. My anger is my self-preservation, because the reality is, if I don't get angry, I am going to fall to pieces at how far we are falling as a species and how hopelessly lost we are.
So, just in case it wasn't made clear in all of the above, War is stupid.
Those who know me would agree that I generally try not to make sweeping statements, or those which could lead to confrontation or a war of words (except with My Person, because, you know, if you can't share extreme and overblown views with the person your soul is intertwined with, then what the actual). I'm pretty open to debate and sometimes will even play Devil's Advocate, just for the hell of the intellectual ping-pong.
Regardless, I do not even care to argue this particular topic. It doesn't matter how intelligent you (think you) are, I'll say it again: War is stupid.
I believe that everybody has their (or a couple of them) flare-points. Topics or opinions that, no matter how balanced and reasonable the person is, will inflame them and almost in a sentence drive them to that cul-de-sac of the debate: BECAUSE IT JUST IS! It's just wrong, or it's just immoral, or it's just the way it is. These are all argument-enders. There's no talking it out with a person who resorts to this kind of statement to explain their point of view: either there isn't anything else behind that drywall, or it's something they cannot communicate in words (which doesn't mean it isn't a valid point, take Faith for example - whole other blog post).
Anyways, I digress, the topic of War is one of my flare-points. When I was in high school one of our set-work poems was Wilfred Owen's 'Dulce et Decorum Est'. I remember being very, very angry throughout this entire portion of the school term. In case you're not familiar with this beautifully constructed (and timeless) piece of art, here you go:
'Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our 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,
Obscene as cancer, 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.'
The final line of this poem is attributed to Roman poet Horace, and the Latin translates to English as "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country".
There isn't much more that I can write that encapsulates the futility and egomaniacal concept of War, as well as this piece does. And to be clear: I am not talking about defending one's home (country etc.) from invading forces - that is not an act of War, that is an act of self-preservation, which is deeply programmed within each and every human being. I am talking about the offensive act of waging War on another person/nation/belief/peoples/species for the satiation of a whopper-sized power trip (or in so-called "defense" of one's beliefs).
If everybody just calmed the *expletive* down, became just a smidge more mindful (and maybe hugged someone), we'd all see the absolute absurdity of War.
You see, I have to get angry about it. My anger is my self-preservation, because the reality is, if I don't get angry, I am going to fall to pieces at how far we are falling as a species and how hopelessly lost we are.
So, just in case it wasn't made clear in all of the above, War is stupid.
[word count: 707/746]
We also did that poem, and we did In Flanders Fields which made me feel just like you do. Being here in the actual place where the latter poem was written, and the battles fought, makes me feel even more angry at the horror of it all.
ReplyDeleteI don't know if I've ever read that poem. My word, I can see why you would've been upset. The futility of it all, and for what?! Sigh. At least 1 more person shares my view, which makes 1 more person less likely to go to war, which sits perfectly ok with me!
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