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Saturday, June 28, 2008
When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead (Poem Analysis) {8:12 AM}
When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead
by Charles Hamilton Sorley
POEM ANALYSIS by Ng Xuan Ru (15) 2i
The poem is made up of only one stanza. The fact that it is written in one large block emphasises the poet’s point that death is overwhelming. Thousands of pitiful soldiers were killed and left to rot and this gruesome content is evident throughout the whole of the poetry.
The poem rhymes on the last syllable on every 4 lines, except for the case which the last 6 lines all rhyme together.
This poem does not have any significant use of any sound features whatsoever.
The poem has a slow rhythm, which makes it sound like it is lecturing a soldier of lower rank about what he should do when he encounters the fallen soldiers.
The poem records a war, where the poet is showing a first-hand experience as he describes the scenery and landscape of the battlefield accurately with details. Also, from “when you see”, I can deduce that the poem is being told to a soldier who survived the war and it tells him to think of those who have died at war as heroes. However, the poem also states that he should not grieve for the dead, because in their death, mourning means nothing to them, as they cannot feel it.
The poet highlights how pointless war can be. They are recognized as heroes and defenders of the country but it is all pointless to them because they will never see the difference they made in the world.
The poet’s disapproval of the authoritative figures involved in the war is also highlighted. From “Their blind eyes see not your tears flow” highlights that the people who started the war, sitting behind their desks, do not show any trace of pity in the sacrifice that the soldiers they dispatched made.
The poet seeks to evoke sorrow and grief to the reader. Also, the first two lines, "When you see millions of the mouthless dead, across your dreams in pale battalions go", suggest that the poet is haunted by horrific and gory images of the war. He says that he can "see" the dead across his dreams. It suggests that he is so much affected by it that ghosts appear in his sleep in their "pale battalions".
The poet emphasizes on the scale of how many people were killed because of the war initially. The poet’s purpose, which is to state that we must all simply acknowledge the fact that these people have died, and that even those who you loved and knew well can never be brought back, is successfully conveyed to the reader through his point-blank delivery of words.
I would describe the poet’s use of words as grave, serious and sombre. Short sentences such as “It is a spook”, “Not tears” and “Not honour” further emphasises that the poet is using a very pessimistic and solemn tone to present the poem.
The most significant usage of metaphors is the phrase “mouthless dead”. This phrase conveys that the soldiers cannot talk when they are dead, and illustrates the scene where the soldiers were mutilated, deformed and maimed to the extent that the face was unrecognisable. It appeals to two of the five senses by painting the picture of the gruesome side of war and introduce the bone-tingling sensation of warfare.
Ng Xuan Ru (15) 2i
Labels: Ng Xuan Ru (15) 2i
Friday, June 20, 2008
Talent Show {5:38 AM}
“Friends, families, boys and girls! Tonight, I once again have the honour to proudly bring you…the Community Youth Talent Showtime!” With a hop and a skip, the round, sweaty face of Jonathan Quentin grinned inanely at the audience. “Let’s all give a warm hand to our young performers!” he enthused. Even though this was a monthly routine all parents had to endure, shadowy hands nevertheless politely clapped from the dark recesses of the audience seats.
“For our first performance, we have Ms Aria Jones, who shall dazzle us tonight with her beautiful songs!” Playing the role of a overenthusiastic talk-show host perfectly, Quentin waved a vicarious arm towards Aria, as if he was granting her a great favor by doing so. Aria smiled, perhaps a little uneasily at all the attention focused on her, and took a short bow. I was faintly surprised that none of the audience reached for an earmuff upon hearing the news.
“Next,” Quentin said, “Mr. Trevor will be sparring against Ms. Aria in an exciting martial arts performance entitled ‘The Lion and the Unicorn Fight for the Crown’!” Trevor raised his right fist proudly in the air in a gesture of manly salute. I found his stance disturbingly similar to a Nazi propaganda poster of an Aryan soldier marching off to war.
“And then,” Quentin continued, “Ms Selena shall perform a stunning set of acrobatics!” Selena, a willowy girl who never took off the gently smiling mask on her face, bowed deeply. She had never let her emotions show. If Isaac Asimov were to tell me one day that a robot had penetrated Earth’s defenses and is now impersonating under the guise of one Selena McMillan, I would not have been the least surprised.
“Last but not least,” Here Quentin abruptly lost his enthusiasm and spoke quite flatly, his voice starkly contrasting the statement he made above, “we have Amrys, who…” While the audience had only displayed a slight, tolerating disinterest in the proceedings up till now, it suddenly woke into life. A gaggle of surprised voices interrupted the announcement. Surely not? The audience whispered amongst themselves. Surely that anti-social, recluse, hermit of a child, surely the Badger of the Forty-Second Community District, is not going to perform tonight, along with the Mole, the Otter, and the Water Rat? Is it true? Can it really be him? Is Judgment Day coming down at last? From where I was standing, I could hear my mother shushing the others in embarrassment.
I closed my eyes and wondered how I was ever talked into this.
* * *
It had been a normal Friday afternoon, just like any other Friday afternoons, when the tragedy occurred. I was just finishing off the last few chapters of The Subtle Knife, around the part where some guy discovered who his father was, only I hadn’t realize that the guy in question was very important to the storyline at first and didn’t really pay much attention to who he was, and what he did, until now, thus I was quite clueless how some sort of dagger suddenly wound up in his hands, and what significance it was…well, you get the gist of it. So ergo I was in a somewhat irritated mood when my mother botched one of the most sensitive subjects in the house, ever.
“Amrys,” she told me, “if you don’t plan to go for next week’s Community Youth Talent Show, again, you would be the only person who hadn’t attended for six months in a row.”
“Oh, what a great honour,” I replied. “See, I told you I could be the first in something if you waited long enough.”
My mother sighed. “This time, you are going to attend, whether you like it or not. If you were to suddenly catch a cold on that day, I’ll make sure you don’t go to the library for a month.”
“No, please!” I pleaded with her. “You know that I can’t go to the Talent Show! You do realize that I can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t tell jokes and can’t do magic tricks? What on earth should I possibly do when I get on stage?”
“True enough,” my mother agreed. She frowned pensively for a moment, and said, “But you can write, can’t you? I know, you’ll write a wonderful drama play as a finale to conclude the Talent Show! I’ll ask your friends if they agree to act in it!”
And that’s what she did. She invited the three kids in the block over and asked them what they thought of her idea over a cup of tea. “Wonderful,” Aria declared. “Better than him slacking again,” Trevor grunted. “I think that will do Amrys lots of good,” Selena pronounced.
I fixed them all with a baleful glare. “Et tu, Brutus?” I asked sardonically.
“Then fall, Caesar!” Aria replied, grinning.
It was not fair, I reflected to myself that night while chewing a pencil into shreds. At least Caesar had a weird soothsayer to warn him of his impending doom. But nobody did warn me.
* * *
It was this and other equally inconsequential thoughts that chased each other around my head while Quentin finished his less-than-glowing resume on what I was going to do for the night. “Let the Showtime begin!” he declared quickly, as though impatient to do away with any subject concerning yours truly.
“Ms Aria Jones,” Quentin said, handing over the mike. Aria received the mike with a small smile, cleared her throat, which created a noise over the microphone like the magnified screaming of an angry banshee, and said, “The first song I am going to sing for today would be Yesterday Once More.” I remembered yesterday quite clearly, with its triple Maths–Science–English tests, and wondered why on Earth would she want to sing that particular song. Nevertheless, sing it she did, and it was not so badly done. Trevor was sitting up straight, eyes wide, listening attentively. Selena closed her eyes and swung her body in tune to the lyrics. I got off my seat and snuck towards the exit.
“Where are you going, young man?” a voice asked behind me. I jumped. Darn it, I had forgotten all about Quentin.
“Um, a drink at the water cooler?” I replied. Quentin gave me a withering glare, went out, came back, and thrust a bottle of mineral water in my hand. “You’re welcome,” he assured me.
I moved regretfully back to my seat.
Aria ended off her performance, as always, with the song ‘Home on the Range’. In fact, for some obscure reason, all concerts or musical performances played in the Community Districts had to be ended off with the song ‘Home on the Range’, despite the fact that with the fast-growing modernization, ranges were almost nonexistent, while deer and antelopes mostly live side-by-side in the same plane as the dodos.
Next was the martial arts performance. Aria returned behind stage only for short change of clothing before joining Trevor for the sparring. She was armed with a plastic sword and he with a tin pole, both pretending to be master duelists. They spun round and round each other, weaving complex patterns with their weapons, leaping high, ducking low, probably using cut-and-paste choreography adapted from some Star Wars movie. It was quite an effort of will, but, using all my well-learned politesse, I actually managed to refrain from mouthing off the dozen sarcastic comments that popped into my mind while I watched the pointless fighting match.
After that was Selena’s turn, and she went into the fray fearlessly. But all in all hers was the easier act. She switched between cart wheeling around the stage to contorting about in a way that stretched her limbs abnormally, which looked rather uncomfortable to me, though I suppose that’s one explanation how she got her height. She then balanced on her hand and rounded off by doing a few backflips before bowing a finish. The audience clapped, the curtains went down. I was feeling a bit nervous. The next one was my show.
* * *
Mine was a rather straightforward play, really. It starts off when this young man, who don’t know nothin’ from nothin’, got told by a strange old mystic that he had a glorious destiny awaiting him, yadda, yadda, blah and blah. So he gets this magic sword, goes around making friends and beating up minions of evil, faces daunting moral challenges before killing the diabolical Tyrant, finally finding out that he was actually a long lost prince – well, you know, the usual stuff, none of which you can’t find in the self-respecting Tor book. Or, at least, that was my plan.
The drama started out fine, with Trevor looking heroic and stupid in some loose-fitting shirt and trousers dyed brown (tunic and breeches they were supposed to be, whatever those were). He actually managed not to burst out laughing when he was told, by our local ancient dentist, how he was the Chosen One and had to free the oppressed land from some evil or another. Then he received his enchanted sword (the one Aria had been using an hour ago) and set off on his journey.
On his way to the neighboring town, he was ambushed by six goons dressed in black (enterprising young fellows who didn’t mind an easy task at the Showtime and volunteered themselves out as secondary characters). Declaring themselves loudly to all and sundry that they were bandits, they engaged Trevor in a breathtaking minute of hand-to-hand combat. Trevor kicked one bandit to the conveniently placed exit at the right side of the stage, than elbowed another into the left side. Oh, no, he was still outnumbered! Never fear! Armed with some improvised rubber darts, Aria shot down the remaining villains with a bow from a branch of a concealed tree, leapt down and, upon hearing Trevor’s worthy quest, and joined the hero. The curtains fell. The audience even gave a sympathetic round of applause.
The next part of the drama starred my favourite character: me. I gave myself, obviously, the easiest job. I was a magician’s apprentice who rescued the two main characters from some feathery avians, then tagged along them, making sarcastic jokes on the way. I prepared myself for an amusing night. I thought nothing could go wrong.
Then, naturally, everything went wrong.
“Watch out, Aria!” Trevor yelled as they ran from the six ex-bandits now dressed up in glued plastic feathers. I was sitting in my ‘study’ waiting for the pair to intrude into my little haven of peace – but, they didn’t.
To my bewilderment, Aria turned suddenly and shot one avian, which promptly collapsed. The others let out hideous screeches and fled, with Aria and Trevor in pursuit.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
The wounded avian continued making horrible noises so loudly that I had no choice but to venture outside, trying to bring the storyline back on course.
“Er…what manner of foul creature are you?” I asked. I felt it best to start off with a question which everyone knew the answer to.
“I am an Avian,” the actor croaked harshly. “I am bound to my Master, and must serve him regardless of my will.”
“Um, really?” I asked. I did not know what I was supposed to say.
“I am too weak to fly at the moment, but as soon as I regain my strength I must go back to the Night Castle to report to the Dark Lord,” the avian said. “And I must tell him of the rebellion’s plan, even though I do not wish to.” I floundered for a moment, but luckily, I was not expected to say anything.
“Will you slay me to aid the forces of Light?” the avian asked. I started; that was the line Trevor was supposed to answer! That was one of the ‘daunting moral challenge’ he had to face! I frowned slightly, wondering what other changes Aria and the rest made upon my script.
“I, uh,” I replied. “I shall not kill an unarmed creature.” I was not too sure what the answer should be, so I tried the safest one.
Then Aria and Trevor suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Avian,” Trevor declared, “by using the Ring of Virtue we recovered from the bandit loot, I shall break you for your vile Master’s hold!” He then started waving a fake ring about. Following that, the Avian shook itself vigorously, and behold, black feathers dropped off to be replaced by white ones, and the avian’s plumed, silver wings made it look like an angel. The audience clapped warmly at this marvelous twist, while I wondered if all humans were inherently racists.
I was slightly puzzled by this plot twist, and wondered how much more of my script was changed. It couldn’t be a lot, I decided. I was very wrong.
What followed after that relatively simple confrontation was me being plunged into a messy, impenetrable fog of confusion, as scene after scene I was forced to answer questions that bore in no way any similar aspect to the original script. Sometimes, I answered correctly and the storyline, which was a faint cameo of what I wrote at first, progressed. Sometimes I answered wrongly and was awarded a dozen minute’s worth of red herring, which was filled with yet more questions.
I heard someone in the audience whisper quite audibly to my mother, “What a wonderful actor your son is! He seems as though he was really in a dilemma all the while!” I snuck a glance at Trevor, Aria and Selena. They looked as if they were barely choking back their giggles.
After an hour’s worth of real-life MMORPG type of quest, we finally made it to the Dark Lord’s Castle, with me barely conscious and swooning with relief. The Dark Lord, dressed in a menacing black cardboard armor and holding black warhammer (painted styrofoam block stuck on the tin pole which Trevor had used), threatened the party with horrific fates of tortures and hangings. We fought the Dark Lord bravely and lost, but, with heroic inspiration at the last possibly minute, Trevor took out a plastic ring, necklace, and ping pong ball (which was supposed to be an orb, but due to the lack of materials…). Brandishing those around, he called forth the Spirits of Light from the Three Ancient Artifacts to destroy the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord in question stumbled a bit and collapsed, snatching defeat right out of the jaws of victory (ah well, don’t they all?).
“My son…” the Dark Lord said to Trevor brokenly with his final breaths. My son? I wondered to myself. Huh? Apparently, the audiences were just as perplexed.
“You…you cannot be my father!” Trevor stuttered. The two then began engaging each other in a long and dull soliloquy. At the end Trevor mourned, “Oh, but you are my father, and I really am the Prince of Tera! Alas, by the Spirits of the Bithia Ring, what shall I do?”
“Smite him for what he did to our people,” Aria suggested.
“Spare his life,” Selena supplied. “He was driven crazy after his wife died,”
“No, Luke, I am your father,” I commented snidely. I should have known better than to draw attention to myself, because at the very next moment, Trevor turned to me and asked, “Esteemed friend, tell me; what must I do?”
To smite or not to smite, that is the question, I thought. All our viewers drew a collectively breath as they waited for my reply.
With my brain missing in action, my mouth appointed itself as second-in-command and took over.
* * *
“Was that really the best answer you could think of?” Selena asked me when the Showtime was over.
I glowered at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you changed my script?” I demanded. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“Well, it was funny,” Selena replied. “At least to us,” she added quickly.
“What would happen if I gave an answer which you couldn’t continue the play with?” I asked.
“We remodeled your whole play into a choose-your-own-adventure type of book,” Selena replied. “After we took a look at your original script, we thought it was pretty superficial, and felt that modifying it wouldn’t be too hard. Besides, all the questions we posed to you were the yes/no ones, and all your responses were anticipated.”
“Then,” I sniffed, “my last answer served you right” The whole of the audience were torn between laughter and rage when I had replied, without thinking, “Well, just put him in the old folk’s home and get it done over with.”
“Actually,” I admitted, “I’m still pretty curious about what would have happened had I chosen differently from what I did. Something tells me that the storyline would have been much different, were it so.”
Selena turned serious. “It’s just like life,” she mused, half to herself. “Every choice you make affects the entire outcome, and each path you take leads you down an infinitely different road of the Wyrd. Life is full of choices, and one must be very careful to pick out the right path from the wrong ones.”
“How very profound,” I replied, and bade her goodbye. Despite my sarcastic tone, I gave her words some thought as I went on my way home.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--
Robert Frost
