Showing 23 posts tagged poem
Their shoulders held the sky suspended.
Underground Vietnam Military Patches
These patches were not sanctioned and approved by the United States Army. Handmade patches for soldiers began during the Vietnam era. Some soldiers wanted unique patches to represent significant events in a soldiers tour — an unrecognized battle, a particular subgroup or unofficial unit. These patches were worn secretly, on the inside of hats or the inside of shirts. They were secretly flashed to other members of the group or unit, but these patches were basically a private affair. In fact images of skulls on patches or insignias were officially forbidden by the military.
Awesome bit history right there.
Fun fact: this tradition still exists.
Although today, it’s migrated towards “tabs” more than full color patches.The bottom-left one is my favourite.
“What God abandoned” is a reference to “Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries” by A.E. Housman, which was a poem written as a tribute to the soldiers of the British Expeditionary Force, who were the first British troops to see action in the First World War. The BEF was made up of professional soldiers rather than conscripts so German propaganda slandered them as mercenaries, and this was Housman’s response;
These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when Earth’s foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling,
And took their wages and are dead.
Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and Earth’s foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.
(via taco-man-andre)
High-res
Curator’s Choice: March 2012.
#INVICTUS#
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever Gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of Circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of Chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
-William Henley 1875An Air Force Pararescue Jumper trainee surfaces for air as he swims towards the finish point at Calaveras Lake, Texas. The PJ indoctrination course at Lackland AFB is nine weeks long and consists of intense physical and mental training requirements. (Photo by Staff Sergeant Jonathan Snyder, 17 August 2011 via DVIDS.)
High-res
#Luck be a lady who hates my guts#
This is that moment
when the world goes silent
and everything slows down,
time stretches out, the fabric of reality warping,
every dust mote that floats in the beam of early evening sunlight
dancing as though to a melody of blood thrumming through veins,
the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest serving up the bass line,
stretching out that moment before
the bullet rips a burning line
through living flesh,
whipping your body around
like a careless dance partner
to slam the world back
into full speed.
(via flyingtrunkmonkey)
“
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime …
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
(via comradecorpsman)
In Flanders Field
They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
(via war-and-tea)
“Behold, the barren beach of Hell at ebb of tide.”
“PARARESCUEMAN
I was that which others did not want to be.I went where others feared to go
and did what others failed to do.
I asked nothing from those who gave nothing
and reluctantly accepted the thought of eternal loneliness…
should I fail.
I have seen the face of terror;
felt the stinging cold of fear
and enjoyed the sweet taste
of a moment’s love.
I have cried, pained and hoped…
but most of all,
I have lived times others would say best forgotten.
Always I will be able to say
that I was proud of what I was:
A PJ.”
-Author unknown, Artist unknown.
That is just beyond badass.
Flares
His wings are gray and trailing,
Azrael, Angel of Death.
And yet the souls that Azrael brings
Across the dark and cold,
Look up beneath those folded wings,
And find them lined with gold.
-Robert Gilbert Welsh, “Azrael”
We are so much cooler than the rest of the Armed Forces (Taken with Instagram)
