blogging gobbledygook and such

Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen

What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons
No mockeries now for them; nor prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning, save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers, the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds

Ms. Praying Mantis tortured us as she does one last time. Comic relief desperately needed.

PM: Class, look at the first line of the poem. What does the poet mean ‘die as cattle’? What comes to mind when you think of cows?

S: Yummy!

When one endures a three-hour long literature class with no breaks in between, food invariably permeates the stupor mind.

Sigh, brings back so much memories of the literature tuition had taken for SPM and STPM. Highlight of self’s schooldays. The food, the jokes, the teasing, the gossip, the teacher, the diverse personalities brought together once a week …

It’s amazing how this post (and some previous ones as well) veers from one end of the emotional scale to the other. Woman, thy hormones are whacked up.

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