One of the few things which seemed wrong about the various Anzac ceremonies was the use of the deardful modernised, ruined version of the Lord's Prayer. None of the myriad dead would have recognised or understood it, and many might well have been extremely offended by what had been done to the original, noble language. But, hey, this is nothing to do with me; the whole thing being twaddle anyway. The familiarity of the thing seems strange, thought - just odd that the trend seems to be to address God as some sort of slightly eccentric neighbour; I'm surprised they're not calling him Jerry or Sam - or, indeed, I suppose, Maureen.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Mark Rylance (Wolf Hall)
He is totally self-absorbed, to the point of eccenrtricity . . . he has a lovely, appealing face and marvellous directness. He has played Peter Pan and many roles at the RSC and has had his own company presenting potted Shakespeare. Born in Kent, he wass brought up in Milwaukee but talks like a northerner who has lost his accent.'
- Alan Bennet, Diaries, MNay 27 1986
- Alan Bennet, Diaries, MNay 27 1986
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Remembrance of war - XIII
FOR THE FALLEN
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sesa.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into imortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going dowj of thesun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain.
- Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sesa.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into imortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going dowj of thesun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain.
- Laurence Binyon
Remembrance of war - XII
THE DUG-OUT
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddles,
And one arm bent across your sullen cold
Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,
Deep-shadowed from the candle's glittering gold;
And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;
Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head . . .
You are too young to fall asleep for ever;
And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
- Siegfried Sassoon
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddles,
And one arm bent across your sullen cold
Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,
Deep-shadowed from the candle's glittering gold;
And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;
Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head . . .
You are too young to fall asleep for ever;
And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
- Siegfried Sassoon
Remembrance of war - XI
DAWN ON THE SOMME
Last night rain fell over the scarred plateau,
And now from the dark horizon, dazzling, flies
Arrow on fire-plumed arrow to the skies,
Shot from the bright arc of Apollo's bow;
And from the wild and writhen waste below,
From flashing pools and mounds lit one by one,
Oh, is it mist, or are these companies
Of morning heroes who arise, arise
With thrusting arms, with limbs and hair agloe,
Toiward the risen god, upon whose brow
Burns the gold laurel of all victories,
Hero and heroes' god, the invincible Sun?
- Robert Nichols
Last night rain fell over the scarred plateau,
And now from the dark horizon, dazzling, flies
Arrow on fire-plumed arrow to the skies,
Shot from the bright arc of Apollo's bow;
And from the wild and writhen waste below,
From flashing pools and mounds lit one by one,
Oh, is it mist, or are these companies
Of morning heroes who arise, arise
With thrusting arms, with limbs and hair agloe,
Toiward the risen god, upon whose brow
Burns the gold laurel of all victories,
Hero and heroes' god, the invincible Sun?
- Robert Nichols
Remembrance of War - X
LOST IN FRANCE: JO'S REQUIEM
He had the ploughman's strength
in the grasp of his hand:
He could see a crow
three miles away,
and the trout beneath the stone.
He could hear the green oats growing,
and the south-west wind making rain.
He could hear the wheel upon the hill
when it left the level road.
He could make a gate, and dig a pit,
And plough as straight as stone can fall.
And he is dead.
- Ernest Rhys
He had the ploughman's strength
in the grasp of his hand:
He could see a crow
three miles away,
and the trout beneath the stone.
He could hear the green oats growing,
and the south-west wind making rain.
He could hear the wheel upon the hill
when it left the level road.
He could make a gate, and dig a pit,
And plough as straight as stone can fall.
And he is dead.
- Ernest Rhys
Remembrance of war - IX
FIFE TUNE
(6/8) for Sixth Platoon, 308th I.T.C.
One morning in Spring
We marched from Devizes
All shapes and all sizes
Like beads oin a strng,
But yet with a swing
We trod the bluemetal
And full of high fettle
We started to sing.
She ran down the stair
A twelve-year-old darling
And laughing and calling
She tossed her bright hair;
Then silent to stare
At the men flowing past her -
There were all she could master
Adoring her there.
It's seldom I'll see
A sweeter or prettier;
I doubt we'll forget her
In two years or three,
And lucky he'll be
She takes for a lover
While we are far over
The treacherous sea.
- John Manifold
(6/8) for Sixth Platoon, 308th I.T.C.
One morning in Spring
We marched from Devizes
All shapes and all sizes
Like beads oin a strng,
But yet with a swing
We trod the bluemetal
And full of high fettle
We started to sing.
She ran down the stair
A twelve-year-old darling
And laughing and calling
She tossed her bright hair;
Then silent to stare
At the men flowing past her -
There were all she could master
Adoring her there.
It's seldom I'll see
A sweeter or prettier;
I doubt we'll forget her
In two years or three,
And lucky he'll be
She takes for a lover
While we are far over
The treacherous sea.
- John Manifold
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