No Ifs or Buts

The words in blue are the first words of Rupert Brooke's War poem 'The Soldier.'

CARRY ON TUESDAY
http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/2010/10/carry-on-tuesday-76.html

NO IFS OR BUTS

'IF I should die........!'

Change that first word to 'When',

Unless, of course, you're not like other men!

There's no point having a little chortle,

Laughing and saying 'Hang on! I'm immortal!'

It's pretty certain you'll turn up your toes

And go the way that everybody goes!

If Einstein, with a brain excelling yours,

With cleverness oozing out of all his pores,

Couldn't work out a way to stay alive,

What makes you think that you will still survive?

No, the word is 'When'; accept the fact

And do not dream that you will stay intact!

*

'Think ONLY this of me......'.
 Why just one thought?

I want the world to be unhinged, distraught!

I want my closest friends to meditate

Daily upon my death and mark the date

With solemn thoughts and pleasant reveries,

A hundred thousand lovely memories!

Of course, I understand that wont occur;

They'll simply pause and then respond 'Oh....her!'

They'll carry-on as though I never was

And that thought really angers me, because

Why should anything at all, on earth, go on
If the reason for its being...... me...... has gone?
*

Rupert had a reason for his lines;

He was off to battle....bullets, tanks and mines.

He was going to an awful living hell,

Where death could come with any passing shell.

His poem was intensely patriotic;

Whereas, for us, such words are idiotic.

There is no 'If'; my death is 'When' and certain.

It's 'coming, ready or not', that final curtain.

Why should I quibble, live on hope or doubt it?

The only thing to do is laugh about it!

*

---------------------------------------------------------

I wrote this poem nearly sixty years ago and it still has the power to recreate for me a scene I came to love well. Brighton, on the South Coast of England, is noted for 'fresh air and fun', candy floss, funny hats, all that the word 'seaside' denotes. But I lived there, in an old Regency building right on the sea-front, for two years, while I was training to be a teacher. Because of this I came to love the Winter Brighton. I would sit on my tiny balcony and listen to the sea lisping on the pebbles. And this is what I wrote. I hope you can see it too.

WINTER SEA

Now has the sea no ending;

It was light and it now is dark.

And the sea with the sky is blending

With a smooth and seamless mark.

And a bird is into the darkness tossed.

The mist comes down and the bird is lost.

Smooth are the lamp's reflections

From the street lights far below.

They are whirligig-bound confections

In a misty cellophane glow.

But their lights reflect on the turning sea,

Like barmaids lost in a reverie.

Now is the night air folding

It's chill wings round the world.

And the sea is gently scolding

As the waves are backward furled.

Like moths that glide under darkened trees

Are the tufted waves on the cold black seas.

*