Sunday, July 30, 2006

Lest We Forget

Been reading quite a bit of war literature these past few days, where the incessant suffering of the soldiers 'entrenched' (no pun intended) in their trenches elucicated that war was not a mere word that conjures images of fighting men and machinery. It is in fact much more and every soldier can lay a claim to feeling its crippling effects from the suffering and starvation to the loss of family and fraternal ties. One can count himself fortunate to be born in an era where Peace has blessed us and Ambition has sought not to make a travesty of peace. Yet, what a loss for Mankind that young soldiers standing on the brink of entering adulthood should have their lives so mercilessly ended by the stray bullet from a direction-less rattling machine gun or the odd shrapnel from the nearby artillery shower.

Lest we forget.

In war, an incomprehensible sense of camaraderie forms between the two opposed armies and it is true only the enemy can experience the same grief and loss. No single episode displays this more clearly than the Christmas of 1914 where the troops from both sides crossed their lines and met in No Man's Land, exchanging uniforms and photos in observance of the true Christmas spirit. Karl von Clausewitz famously once said, 'War is the continuation of policy by other means'. Yet, for the men who gave up their lives serving this policy, surely it has been too heavy a price to pay?

Lest we forget.

A oft-neglected group of people in stories about war are the pining mothers awaiting their sons' return from the frontline. In 'All Quiet on the Western Front', Remarque tells of the hero's mother during the hero's two week break from the frontline. During his brief return, she willingly whipped up sumptuous after sumptuous meal with what ever little precious foodstuff the family has tediously hoarded over the war years. However, while she was making her son's return comfortable, the hero's mother was also battling the pains from her own debilitating illness. She was fighting her own war and still she had enough in her reserve to care for someone else. Such is the strength and magnitude of her maternal love that pushed her on despite her own sufferings.

Tears invariably formed and rolled off as the story continued.. I shall end this off with a poem by Sassoon..

The Hero, Siegfried Sassoon, 1917

'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quivered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

Lest we forget.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

On Skiing


I have been away this past week, firstly on a visit to Sydney and spending the mid course of the week skiing.

Having been completely uninitiated into the sport of skiing, I took the plunge into the unknown abyss, hoping that I could possibly be the next Big Thing in the Australian Alps. Well, for the record, I did manage to take out three skiers on the first day with a display of spectacular falls and crashes. It was embarrassing. Nevertheless, even though the effects of a turgid nose were beginning to bog me down with heavy breathing, the courageous skier in me trudged on. Yet, by mid-day, I was tackling the steeper slopes, swishing past the majority of experienced skiers with deadly (pun intended) speed before the inevitable end of an awkward fall. Perhaps what I was lacking in skill was more than compensated by an abundance of temerity.

Surprisingly, Day Two and Three really went past in a flash (not in the falling manner) as I gradually mastered the art of balance. Imagine the exhilaration when you reach the bottom of the slope intact and upright instead of having snow spewing out from all your pockets. I was now able to appreciate the milieu of the Alps in full flow when coming down the slopes rather than a furtive glance every few seconds before greeting the ground. The trip nearly ended on a sour note as we missed our coach on the last day but alas, I managed to bump into a few mates who took us down the mountains. All's well that ends well albeit the few heart stopping moments that left us mortified at the sight of the coach leaving, without us onboard.

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I read a very meaningful statement recently. It went like, 'Writing has always been a form of catharsis for me'. This left me rapt in thought for a long while. One conclusion: I should write more?

Thoughts, ideas, confusion...

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

A Strange Night

A night of relevations and mysteries unveiled, a night of confessions and even painful discoveries. Such was yesterday night. Had to get up early but could not go to bed early due to the frequent late afternoon sleep-ins after the inconvenient hours of the WC games. In my daze and frustrations to get some sleep, I composed a poem entitled 'Perhaps She Never Knew'. A dilettantish effort at poetry after a long lay-off.

Perhaps She Never Knew

Perhaps She never knew,
That the quiet and unassuming boy,
So fond of her,
Could not quite find his courage to tell her.

Perhaps She never knew,
That on the long summer days spent together,
Time stood still for him,
Yet at that moment it all seemed the same to her.

Perhaps She never knew,
That his always obliging schedule,
Was because he worked the graveyard shifts,
For the sake of seeing her.

Perhaps She never knew,
That with every voyage he returns from the treacherous seas,
All he yearns to see,
Was the endearing smile upon her pristine lips.

Peharps She now knew,
That the boy who once pined for her affections,
Now laid heart-broken and in tatters,
A fragile piece of tapestry torn beyond recognition.

If only She knew.



Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Placidness

Unwinding for the past few days has been a rejuvenating experience.. Ethereal?

A seaman once told me that navigating through a mirror sea during the first leg of an expedition meant a tumultuous sea on the return leg. Well, I suppose Nature has a way of tuning her own balancing act for each and everyone. Yet, I often wonder, if we can rid the burdens of expectations upon ourselves and others, surely it would be a happier world? Returning to my earlier allegory, would it not be for the best if the mirror sea remained as it is, flooding and ebbing but never ceasing?

But in seeking a life of placidness, we do give up certain privileges such as our will power and self improvement. While saying that, a saying from young instantly props into my mind. It goes, 'An idle mind is the devil's workshop'. Sure enough, a timely and stinging reprimand that maybe we do seek that little patch of rough waters to motivate ourselves to go an extra nautical mile. I quote William Shedd, 'A ship is safe in harbor, but that's not what ships are for'.

Upon a second reading of this entry, seems a tad too much of the maritime balderdash?