“All in the valley of death rode the six hundred.”

October 25, 2010 Leave a Comment

The Battle of Balaklava occurred on this date, October 25, 1854. This battle contained the disastrous Charge of The Light Brigade that inspired Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem. This poem is one of my all time favorites.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

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4th of July

July 4, 2010 Leave a Comment

Since it’s the 4th of July, and the first edition of Walt Whitman’s book Leaves of Grass was published on this date in 1855, I thought this poem from Whitman’s book was only appopriate.

Long, Too Long America

Long, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn’d from joys and prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish, advancing, grappling with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv’d what your children en-masse really are?)

Have a Happy Fourth!

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My Ghostly Visitor

March 20, 2010 Leave a Comment

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, M.C.

Thursday, March 18th was the poet Wilfred Owen’s birthday. For many years I have paused on March 18 to remember him and the influence he and his work have had on my life. In a way, he has become a ghostly visitor to me every March.

The story behind my fondness for Owen comes from a very difficult and dark time in my life. I am a PTSD survivor. I ended up suffering with PTSD due to my days in law enforcement. For some time I struggled the the depression that comes from PTSD. I was very fortunate to have a supportive family and friends. I was also fortunate to be in a position to embark on the long  journey through my illness to a place of relative wellness.

During the time that my struggles with PTSD were dark and terrifying, I tried to learn everything I could about it. I poured myself into studying this illness. At this same time, Owen’s poetry took on a new profundity for me. Owen had been a soldier during World War 1. Due to his war experiences, Owen had been diagnosed with what they called at the time “shell shock”. Shell Shock is what we now know as PTSD.

Owen’s best work was written during the time he was convalescing at the Craiglockhart War Hospital. The poems of his experiences deeply resonate with me and my experiences as a police officer. In a way, Owen has come to represent this part of my life.

Wilfred Owen did not survive the war. One week before the Armistice, he was killed in battle.

Wilfred Owen's Grave

I look forward to my ghostly visit again next year. Rest in peace old friend.

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I Too Am An American

April 10, 2009 Leave a Comment

I too am an American
though I don’t drive an oversized SUV
and I really don’t care for Toby Keith.

There aren’t flags flying on my house
no magnetic yellow ribbons 
nor patriotic bumper stickers on my car.

What are the things that make you an American
is it voting for the right candidate
or declaring belief in the right things?

I think the things that make you American
are values we can all agree on
things that unite not divide.

Things like freedom
the right to self determination
to voice our opinions.

In spite of all the rhetoric, vitriol and angry words
there is more that unites us than divides us
and that is what makes me an American.

Shalom,

Scott D

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Remembering Wilfred Owen

March 18, 2009 Leave a Comment

Today would have been the  poet Wilfred Owen’s birthday. Owen was a British infantry officer during World War 1. He wrote vivid poems about his experiences in war. I connect with his poetry probably because of the 18 years I have spent in law enforcement. Cops spend their careers as witnesses to death and tragedy a lot like soldiers. I found Owen during the darkest period of my struggles with PTSD.

In tribute to Owen, I am posting one of my favorite poems of his.

The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him, thy son.
Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

Shalom,

Scott D

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Archive of My Soul

February 24, 2009 Leave a Comment

This is the archive of my soul
the place where my old thoughts lie
a repository for tortured feelings
and aging dreams

I’ve always wondered where they went
when their time was over
did they just flit away
or decay into nothingness

they say that energy never is used up
it’s just converted to another form
tiny sparks across the synapses
get dissipated into the unknown

but now I find them all here
gathering dust
stacked on shelves in stark volumes
in a musty back room

my childhood dream next to
my former passion
my teenaged angst on top of
my twenty’ish obsessions

be careful my friend
I leave them all 
to those who come
searching.

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Coffee Cup

February 22, 2009 Leave a Comment

At once they looked and gasp
at the cup, that was his last
on the floor now it rested
on concrete the glass was bested

you see cups aren’t cheap
at the shop down the street
where the men sit and complain
about their wives, and their pains

but now they number fewer
his mug is gone forever
and he along with his cup.

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Rhythm In The Road

February 16, 2009 Leave a Comment

There’s a rhythm in the road
that echoes the fast footfalls
of the solitary runner
his struggle is not 
with those who share this highway
he struggles with himself
to press on
to push harder
to finish the course.

Somewhere out there
he’ll find what he’s looking for
he’ll know what he’s made of
the struggle with himself
will fade away
to become 
the heat of accomplishment.

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Legacy

February 15, 2009 Leave a Comment

As you can see from the About Scott text, I have been considering my legacy as of late. I think for many, especially men, legacy is something that we struggle with. Questions like “am I relevant?” or “did I make a difference?” all come upon us at some point. This is probably the origin of the fabled mid-life crisis. Men come to a point in their lives when they wonder if they’ve made a difference. Have they run the race well? While mulling this over I put it to verse. 

Legacy

What will my legacy be 
will my life have meaning 
will you look fondly back 
if you’re left behind 

Or will my passing be so obscure 
a difference won’t be noted 
none will pause upon the news 
and fewer still will mourn

That this latter fate will be mine
I fear more than death 
for death can only take my life
and this I can’t control

Why I fear this I do not know
because relevance is elusive
I hurl my pen and curse you
damnable obscurity.

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RIP Gabby

November 26, 2008 Leave a Comment

We had to put Diana’s cat Gabby to sleep today. Gabby was about 19 years old, which is extremely old for a cat. Gabby liked to nap with anyone that was also napping. She’d lie on your chest while you slept and was particularly fond of Diana as you can see from this photo.

Years ago I wrote this about Gabby.

Gabby

Gabby’s tummy is not a flabby tummy
it’s long and sleek, and black
but Gabby’s tummy is a rubbin’ tummy
with her lying on her back

Gabby’s feet aren’t fat old feet
with food she’s not a  pig
but Gabby’s feet are playin’ feet
they’re better used to dig

Gabby’s tail is not a skinny tail
it was made for chasin’
but Gabby’s tail is a fuzzy tail
built that way for racin’

Gabby cat is not a serious cat
to her that would be injurious
but Gabby cat is a good old cat
always sweet and curious.

It’s kind of funny how attached you can get to a pet. Diana had a hard time talking about it this morning. During a phone call this morning she cut me off in order to prevent another “boo hoo fest”.

The Bible is not clear cut what happens to our pets when they die. On the subject I once heard a theologian say that his belief was that since God was the source of life, when our animals die the “breath of life” that God gave them returns back to God. On the surface it may not be as charming a thought as the idea that our deceased pets are waiting for us in heaven along with all our dead relatives, but since God is the author of all things good, it’s a great place for them to be.

So Gabby, wherever you are right now, you were loved and we’ll miss you.

Shalom,

Scott D

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