Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!
Man is a bubble, and all the world is a storm. He kept it on a shelf in our family den, where for years when I was a kid it roared down at us -- unappeasably furious or so I always thought at being trapped up there on its high perch, with no company except some painted beer mugs and a set of purple glass swizzle sticks.
Then one day it got broken; I don't remember how. Probably my brother and I writing a war poem by mark having a skirmish and a shot went wild. I thought my father would be furious, but he didn't say a word.
Carefully, almost reverently, he wrapped up the tiger and the shards of its shattered leg and put them away in a box in the basement. A long time later, years after my father died, my mother and my wife found the box when they were clearing out some old family junk.
My wife knows how much I like big cats and all other varieties of predators and raptors, and she painstakingly glued the tiger back together and gave it to me as a present. It's roaring at me again as I write this: The tiger seems to fit right in, but I sometimes suspect it feels shanghaied.
My father hadn't got it because he was fond of tigers or because he had any interest in nature. He'd bought it in Korea, where he'd been a fighter pilot during the Korean war; his squadron had been called the Flying Tigers. My wife hadn't known that; I barely remembered it myself.
My father didn't like telling war stories. He'd accumulated fistfuls of medals over there, and he kept them stashed in an anonymous little plush case at the back of his closet, where they went unseen for decades. That was all part of the past, and he had no use for the past.
He used to wave off any question I asked about the world before I was born, irritatedly dismissing it as if all of that were self-evidently too shabby and quaint to interest a modern kid like me. What did he think about when he saw it?
Did it remind him of the distance he'd traveled from that war, or of how incongruously bland and safe his life was now, now that he'd amassed a commercial-perfect suburban family in the depths of the American heartland?
I don't know, because he wouldn't say. Whatever patina of private associations the tiger had for him is gone for good. If my wife hadn't rescued the tiger it would have been cut loose to make its own way in the world -- to languish in rummage-sale boxes and end up with new owners who'd never suspect how far it had wandered through the world to reach them.
But I have the feeling my father wouldn't have minded that; he never liked other people knowing his business.
That's the common fate of mementos. They're never quite specific enough. No matter what their occasion was, they sooner or later slip free and are lost in a generic blur: It's particularly true, I think, of the mementos of soldiers, because nobody other than a soldier remembers the details of any war once it's safely over.
What really happened in Korea? I don't have the slightest idea; war just isn't an experience I'm up on. I was barely young enough to miss the Vietnam draft, and I'm old enough now that the only way I could figure in a future war is as a victim. The tiger can't preserve the memory of the bombing missions my father flew.
Its odd rippling surface doesn't correspond to the landscape of North Korea, terrain my father knew by heart -- which had once saved his life: Nor does that frozen roar speak to the complex of murky policies that had sent my father into battle in the first place, thousands of miles from home.
To me, the tiger is just a platitude -- if it means anything, it's a symbol for all the violence in life I've been spared.In this particular video, we are going to focus on how to write a poem about war.
War poetry is a very popular genre of poetry. It is a subject that has shaped our world in conflicts past and present, continuing to impact our daily lives.
How to Write a Poem. In this Article: Article Summary Sample Poems Starting the Poem Writing the Poem Polishing the Poem Community Q&A Writing a poem is all about observing the world within or around you. A poem can be about anything, from love to loss to the rusty gate at the old farm.
How to Read a Poem - Reading poetry well is part attitude and part technique. Curiosity is a useful attitude, especially when it’s free of preconceived ideas about what poetry is or should be. Effective technique directs your curiosity into asking questions, drawing you into a conversation with the poem.
Inspire your middle school student to write like a pro! This writing activity is in honor of the legendary Mark Twain, a master of satirical comedy. This week marks a century since the outbreak of the first world war.
Chosen from 1, years of English writing about war, poet and Oxford professor Jon Stallworthy selects some of the best. IN FLANDERS FIELDS POEM The World’s Most Famous WAR MEMORIAL POEM By Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row.