Tuesday 11 March 2008
Monday 17 December 2007
essay of war. Manuel Becerril
These Two poems discuss about war. The theme of the first poem called “dulce est decorum est” explains how war affects people and how soldiers suffer. In the other hand, the second poem “The Soldier” expresses how people should give their lifes for their country. The poem persuades the reader to believe that war is a heroic act of victory. The other poem instead shows that war is one of the worse acts mankind could do. These contrasting opinions are formed through the experience of the poets.
Rupert Brooke, the author of “the soldier” wrote this poem in 1914, before the war began properly. Rupert Brook was born as a rich person, in the upper classes, and it’s famous for his idealistic war poems. Brooke was killed one year after he wrote this poem (1915) by an insect bite.
Wilfred Owen, the author of “dulce est decorum est” worked as a teacher and was part of the working middle class. He went to war two times and he was sent home after he got a tremendous shell shock. Unfortunately he died three days before peace was declared. He was awarded with a medal for his extreme bravery. He wrote this poem in October of 1917 and was finally published after his dead in 1920. The title of this poem is wrote in latin and it talks about how was life in the war, being a soldier, not being able to have a shower in days or weeks.
Wilfred Owen’s poem expresses exactly how I feel about war. He uses tremendous similes and alliteration in many ways. Some similes as “Bent double like old beggars under sacks” expresses the reality of discomfort and filth of soldiers and another example as “and flound’ring like a man in fire or lime” Wilfred Owen makes you feel death to shock the reader.
In comparison, the poem of Rupert Brooke doesn’t show much care about the actual reality of war and just tries to persuade the reader of the good points about war instead of the bad ones such as the suffering of the soldiers and their families. And this doesn’t mean this poem isn’t a good poem it’s just another way of thinking that the reader may agree or not agree with.
The poems have different levels of complexity in relation to the language each poem uses.
Wilfred Owen’s poem is probably more difficult to understand than Rupert Brook’s because of his higher level of language devices that it employs.
The conclusion of these two poems is that non of them is either wrong or right but they obviously are different points of view one expresses the negative view of war and the other the positive. The truth is neither of them can be complete but, as I see it, the two of them give a tremendous idea of war to actually be able to create a setting and a character and imagine being a soldier; how they suffer and also how they feel proud about saving their country although probably the fear and sadness in them is much bigger thant their proud.
Rupert Brooke, the author of “the soldier” wrote this poem in 1914, before the war began properly. Rupert Brook was born as a rich person, in the upper classes, and it’s famous for his idealistic war poems. Brooke was killed one year after he wrote this poem (1915) by an insect bite.
Wilfred Owen, the author of “dulce est decorum est” worked as a teacher and was part of the working middle class. He went to war two times and he was sent home after he got a tremendous shell shock. Unfortunately he died three days before peace was declared. He was awarded with a medal for his extreme bravery. He wrote this poem in October of 1917 and was finally published after his dead in 1920. The title of this poem is wrote in latin and it talks about how was life in the war, being a soldier, not being able to have a shower in days or weeks.
Wilfred Owen’s poem expresses exactly how I feel about war. He uses tremendous similes and alliteration in many ways. Some similes as “Bent double like old beggars under sacks” expresses the reality of discomfort and filth of soldiers and another example as “and flound’ring like a man in fire or lime” Wilfred Owen makes you feel death to shock the reader.
In comparison, the poem of Rupert Brooke doesn’t show much care about the actual reality of war and just tries to persuade the reader of the good points about war instead of the bad ones such as the suffering of the soldiers and their families. And this doesn’t mean this poem isn’t a good poem it’s just another way of thinking that the reader may agree or not agree with.
The poems have different levels of complexity in relation to the language each poem uses.
Wilfred Owen’s poem is probably more difficult to understand than Rupert Brook’s because of his higher level of language devices that it employs.
The conclusion of these two poems is that non of them is either wrong or right but they obviously are different points of view one expresses the negative view of war and the other the positive. The truth is neither of them can be complete but, as I see it, the two of them give a tremendous idea of war to actually be able to create a setting and a character and imagine being a soldier; how they suffer and also how they feel proud about saving their country although probably the fear and sadness in them is much bigger thant their proud.
Thursday 8 November 2007
Does it Matter?
Does it Matter?
(from Counter-Attack)
DOES it matter?--losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter?--losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
(from Counter-Attack)
DOES it matter?--losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter?--losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
God! How I Hate You!
God! How I Hate You!
God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men,
Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
As soon as you are in them, nurtured up
By the salt of your corruption, and the tears
Of mothers, local vicars, college deans,
And flanked by prefaces and photographs
From all you minor poet friends — the fools —
Who paint their sentimental elegies
Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share
The dead’s brief immortality
Oh Christ!
To think that one could spread the ductile wax
Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires
And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants —
“Oh happy to have lived these epic days” —
“These epic days”! And he’d been to France,
And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead
In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire:
Chobed by their sickley fœtor, day and night
Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths,
Proved all that muddy brown monotony,
Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps
Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night,
Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step,
His neck against the back slope of the trench,
And the rest doubled up between, his head
Smashed like and egg-shell, and the warm grey brain
Spattered all bloody on the parados:
Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend,
Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes — gone!
Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right
In the best possible of worlds. The woe,
Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only
A seeming woe, we cannot understand.
God loves us, God looks down on this out strife
And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times
And calls some warriors home. We do not die,
God would not let us, He is too “intense,”
Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He
Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is!
On earth, the love and fellowship of men,
Men sternly banded: banded for what end?
Banded to maim and kill their fellow men —
For even Huns are men. In heaven above
A genial umpire, a good judge of sport,
Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice
God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold.
Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems,
Large as a mustard-seed) — we trust and trust,
Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is
To suffer us to be born just now, when youth
That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore,
Where very God Himself does seem to walk
The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!
God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men,
Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
As soon as you are in them, nurtured up
By the salt of your corruption, and the tears
Of mothers, local vicars, college deans,
And flanked by prefaces and photographs
From all you minor poet friends — the fools —
Who paint their sentimental elegies
Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share
The dead’s brief immortality
Oh Christ!
To think that one could spread the ductile wax
Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires
And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants —
“Oh happy to have lived these epic days” —
“These epic days”! And he’d been to France,
And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead
In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire:
Chobed by their sickley fœtor, day and night
Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths,
Proved all that muddy brown monotony,
Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps
Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night,
Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step,
His neck against the back slope of the trench,
And the rest doubled up between, his head
Smashed like and egg-shell, and the warm grey brain
Spattered all bloody on the parados:
Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend,
Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes — gone!
Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right
In the best possible of worlds. The woe,
Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only
A seeming woe, we cannot understand.
God loves us, God looks down on this out strife
And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times
And calls some warriors home. We do not die,
God would not let us, He is too “intense,”
Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He
Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is!
On earth, the love and fellowship of men,
Men sternly banded: banded for what end?
Banded to maim and kill their fellow men —
For even Huns are men. In heaven above
A genial umpire, a good judge of sport,
Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice
God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold.
Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems,
Large as a mustard-seed) — we trust and trust,
Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is
To suffer us to be born just now, when youth
That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore,
Where very God Himself does seem to walk
The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!
Tuesday 30 October 2007
LEARNING!
1-What I have learned in English
I have learned how to describe objects as human beings - Sean
I have learned how to use language devices in my writing - Nat G
I learned that learning can be fun:) - Dani
I have learned to love -E.G.A.
I have learned emphasize with descriptive writing! English can be very fun! - Ines
I have learned to care! - Anonymus
2-Prepositions
This above it all - E.G.A.
I´m below the table - Samer
Under my roof - Carla
In tha house - Nat G
Through the window - Dani
Above the city - Alexa DM
Into the deepness - R.C.
3-Language Devices
This is as bright as the sun - E.G.A.
The wind shouts really high and fast - Carla
Fantastic and Faboulos - Ines
Similies- R.C.
Metaphore- Alexa
1-What I have learned in English
I have learned how to describe objects as human beings - Sean
I have learned how to use language devices in my writing - Nat G
I learned that learning can be fun:) - Dani
I have learned to love -E.G.A.
I have learned emphasize with descriptive writing! English can be very fun! - Ines
I have learned to care! - Anonymus
2-Prepositions
This above it all - E.G.A.
I´m below the table - Samer
Under my roof - Carla
In tha house - Nat G
Through the window - Dani
Above the city - Alexa DM
Into the deepness - R.C.
3-Language Devices
This is as bright as the sun - E.G.A.
The wind shouts really high and fast - Carla
Fantastic and Faboulos - Ines
Similies- R.C.
Metaphore- Alexa
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