The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things
Putin’s bloody debacle in Ukraine reflects a system “in which medievalism meets Stalinism meets dark farce.”
O world of lips, O world of laughter,
Where hope is fleet and thought flies after,
Of lights in the clear night, of cries
That drift along the wave and rise
When he came to the bottom of his street he could hear the screams. Chaos unfolded before him. Houses were burning and women were running hunched over as they tried to protect their children. Soldiers on horseback ran them down, shooting and slashing and impaling people indiscriminately.
Humanity fluctuates with power, morality, and truth. There’s more than one way to be objectified.
Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed
The cruelty in this poem is overwhelming – as Sassoon intended. So opposed was he to jingoistic propaganda, he deliberately slashed very tender imagery with the sharpest irony.
The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach. I have heard them all, and of the three elemental voices, that of ocean is the most awesome, beautiful and varied.
How can they use such names and be not humble?
I have sat silent; angry at what they uttered.
When Thomas and Frost met in London in 1913, neither had yet made his name as a poet. They became close, and each was vital to the other’s success. But then Frost wrote ‘The Road Not Taken’, which brought Thomas to an irreversible decision.