On War: Notes to My Son
…and to yours, and to all of us.
Sir Roger is currently in the land of the poppy but not near Flanders fields. Yet there are poppies here in the South of France and the whiff of war and bloody conflict is inescapably faintly background to all.
And so it was a cold and brassy wind which blew through Sir Roger’s eye sockets and resonated in his skull and rattled the bones of his skeleton when Les recited this poem, perhaps the angriest, truest, most biting and chilling verse of war Sir Roger has ever heard.
Notes for My Son
Remember when you hear them beginning to say Freedom
Look carefully–see who it is that they want you to butcher.Remember, when you say that the old trick would not have
fooled you for a moment
That every time it is the trick which seems new.Remember that you will have to put in irons
Your better nature, if it will desert to them.Remember, remember their faces–watch them carefully:
For every step you take is on somebody’s body.And every cherry you plant for them is a gibbet
And every furrow you turn for them is a graveRemember, the smell of burning will not sicken you
If they persuade you that it will thaw the worldBeware. The blood of a child does not smell so bitter
If you have shed it with a high moral purpose.So that because the woodcutter disobeyed
they will not burn her today or any daySo that for lack of a joiner’s obedience
The crucifixion will not now take placeSo that when they come to sell you their bloody corruption
You will gather the spit of your chest
And plant it in their faces.– Alex Comfort
Posted: 27 May, 2012 in Australian Politics, Australian Values, History, Iraq, Language, Life, Literature, politics and government, values.
Tags: Afghanistan, alex comfort, anti-war, Australian Values, comfort, History, Iraq, Literature, notes to my son, poem, poetry, politics, Remember when you hear them beginning to say Freedom, values, verse, war, WWI, WWII
Comments
Comment from roger migently
Posted: 12 June, 2012 at 9:14 pm
My Liege! What a joy to know that you are well (or well enough) and her Ladyship Patricia, too, whom I recall we thought we had lost for sure.
One has been somewhat preoccupied of late with working and travelling and – well, mostly because Australian politics has been so unutterably awful over the last few years from every direction that it has been hard to feel that anything one can say can touch the edges of the void that stares back. And sometimes a jewel like this poem comes up to prove the limitations of the polemic of Sir Roger. Every now and then, my Laird, there will be something here.
By the way, I don’t know if you noticed but your faith has been justified and Values Australia has been forever immortalised in the Pandora Archive of the online collection of the Australian National Library. A small feather perhaps but a feather nonetheless.
Thanks for being back in touch.
Comment from laird lang
Posted: 28 May, 2012 at 10:56 pm
My Dear Sir;
One has been somewhat indisposed for an time that found the Laird, testy at food, doctors, Oxygen,numerous blood giving, wandering god spivs, the urge to kill(other patients) , correcting the visiting “specialist” (no, that’s not me, with the wire on my brisket, “Oh, well , hum, I’ll be back), the good? news is that due to reasons that are quite beyond my feeble, I am holding this hand out.
The Laird has observed the passion that drives, had not dimmed the heart or spirit of Sir Roger, indeed there is an underlying side that makes Sir Roger almost accessible to the common.
Well, the laird will attempt to converse as in previous times,occasionally one gets tired, the spirit is there, more than ever, the application on occasions takes effort though valued, is trying.
Patricia (yes, still going) and young Jack(her son) appreciate efforts, indeed (as any Boarder Collie will intimate to you, our nose smells bull shit from the first utter, Sir Roger utters, we’ll sleep.
What higher honer would one want.)
This is why you have never seen Tony Abbott with a Boarder Collie, or any other animal I think.
Sir Roger, please still cast your penumbra over (sic) the things we are we hold dear, in this life(or what is left) you are needed.
Laird and lady Lang, Patricia and young Jack.