Arts, Books, Christianity, Culture, Middle East

Book Review: The Vanishing and The Twilight of Christianity

LITERARY REVIEW

Intro: Janine di Giovanni provides a deeply personal and journalistic account of the rapid decline of Christian communities in the Middle East. As a former war correspondent, and a practicing Catholic, di Giovanni blends political analysis with oral testimonies and histories to document what she describes as a “vanishing” world

THE veteran war reporter Janine di Giovanni roams far and wide to find out why 2,000 years of Christianity and its history in the Middle East may be nearing an end. In trying to understand the exodus, she tours monasteries in Syria’s warzones, visits embattled enclaves in Egypt, and meets Iraqi Christians from Mosul, who had “N” for “Nazarene” daubed on their doors by Islamic State.

Yet, among the more poignant symbols she notes are not the bombed-out churches on the frontlines, but the crucifix tattoos on the young restaurateurs who serve her lunch in the tranquil northern Iraqi city of Irbil. The tattoos are not hipster affectations, but symbols of a creed whose adherents no longer know their place – “the garish link depicting a permanence belied by their current predicament”.

Di Giovanni spoke to them about their insecurities. She sought to understand how they had been separated from family during the ISIS invasion, how they fear the future, and how they are saving their wages in a quest to pay illegal smugglers to get them out of Iraq. “But once out, where would they go?” she asks. 

To quite a few places, actually. Such has been the turbulence in the Middle East over the last half-century that its Christians have been forced out: diasporas range from Chicago to Ealing in west London. The exodus is particularly marked in Iraq and Syria, where the Christian minority had traditionally enjoyed the protection of secular strongmen such as Saddam Hussein and Bashar al-Assad. In Iraq, where an estimated 1.4 million Christians once lived, there are now only 250,000. In Syria, around 700,000 Christians of the pre-civil-war population of 1.1 million have departed.

The author, who has been covering the Middle East for more than three decades for high-end publications such as Vanity Fair, is well placed to chronicle the mass retreat – and astute enough not to blame it all on some sinister grand scheme by the region’s Muslims. In recent years, after all, some in the West have been quick to portray this as close to a genocide, underplayed by a liberal media that now finds Christianity a bit embarrassing. But while Christians have suffered at the hands of Sunni fanatics like ISIS, so too have many Muslims, Yazidis in northern Iraq, and other minorities: the reason they are fleeing is often just the general lawlessness, lousy government, and a desire to seek a better life abroad.

Still, di Giovanni makes it clear why many Christians in the Middle East feel their fortunes to be particularly on the wane. After 1945, they often formed an educated middle class, whose acumen in commerce, medicine, and teaching was appreciated by progressive-minded despots. For example, the courteous and urbane Christian Tariq Aziz, Iraq’s foreign minister, was for many years the acceptable face of Saddam Hussein’s regime.

Even after Saddam’s 2003 downfall – which many saw as a US “crusade” – there were no organised reprisals against the invaders’ co-religionists. And while al-Qaeda’s Sunni extremists focused on murdering fellow Muslims, Christians in the region also suffered. Then, in 2010, Islamic State gunmen stormed Our Lady of Salvation Church in Baghdad, killing 58. The group’s subsequent seizure of northern Iraq, including ancient Christian towns such as Qaraqosh, was for many the final straw. Many are leaving because there is no life and very little or no incentive to stay.

In Syria, things are scarcely better. Christians have had little choice but to rely on the Mafia-like protection of President Assad, himself a minority Alawite. A Syrian bishop tells di Giovanni that only Assad can hold Syria together – aware, presumably, that by taking sides, his flock may be tainted.

Indeed, the only Christians whose future seems reasonably assured in the Middle East are Egypt’s Copts, who, at up to 10 million, are perhaps simply too numerous to be pushed out. Ironically, it is here that community tensions seem worst. In 2013, mobs attacked 42 churches, and in the Christian districts di Giovanni visits, locals bitterly complain of being treated as second-class citizens.

Di Giovanni writes elegantly, her reporting and careful analysis informed partly by being a Catholic herself. However, the focus of this book is likely to surprise many readers’: nearly half of it is about Christians in Egypt and Gaza, where now barely 1,000 live. It is a source of amazement her editors didn’t ask her to concentrate mainly on Iraq and Syria, where the Christian decline has been at its most dramatic.

As such, it underplays some key chapters in the “exodus” narrative. The reason Christians first fled post-Saddam Iraq in droves was because their prosperity made them targets for criminal activity, and because they tended to turn the other cheek rather than form militias. There is no mention of how the Baghdad Christian enclave of Doura – once labelled “The Vatican” – was overrun by al-Qaeda in 2006, or how the Iraqi capital’s Christian flock is now among those most at risk of becoming extinct, having reached a tipping point where most Christian families have more relatives outside of Iraq than in.

On which note, it would also have been interesting to read about life for the diaspora in the “Little Baghdads” of Chicago and Ealing. The irony is that, by offering Christian sanctuary, the West is inadvertently hastening Middle Eastern Christianity’s demise all the more.

The Vanishing: Faith, Loss, and the Twilight of Christianity in the land of the Prophets is published by Bloomsbury, 272pp      

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Arts, BBC, Broadcasting, Culture, Government, Media, Society, Technology

For the BBC to survive requires answering some critical questions

UK MEDIA

WE are now overwhelmed with the number of ways in which we can view content. It can be difficult to know where to begin: Netflix, Apple TV, Amazon, YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram are all just a click away.

This profound transformation of the entertainment and digital media industry has fragmented audiences and also altered the future prospects of the UK broadcasters that previously dominated our viewing experience. The BBC in particular faces profound questions as it enters discussions with the Government on charter renewal.

The BBC is not alone in facing critical questions about its future. Channel 4, too, is caught up in the complexity as the globalised entertainment industry reorders itself around a handful of gigantic platforms.

Most in Britain still like to talk about “our” broadcasters as if they are permanent fixtures of national life. In reality, they are now islands under threat in an ocean dominated by American tech companies and our addictive relationships with our smart phones.

In the United States, the industry has drawn the obvious conclusion. If you want to survive in this era, you need more scale. That is why we see major studios and platforms circling each other, exploring combinations that would have been unthinkable just a decade ago. When a studio as diverse and storied as Paramount concludes that it needs to combine with a bigger partner like Warner Bros simply to flourish in the streaming age, it tells us something about the brutal economics of global entertainment today.

Yet in the UK, our public service broadcasters risk remaining stuck in old models and old ways of thinking. They are still organised around linear schedules, legacy silos, and institutional pride, rather than around the single hard question that now matters: how do we build something big and compelling enough to matter in a digital world where the viewer is always one click away from bypassing British content altogether? At precisely the moment when courageous transformation is required, we risk clinging to structures designed for a previous century.

For the BBC, this question is existential. The age profile of its audiences keeps creeping upwards. Younger viewers are drifting to platforms whose names barely existed when the last licence fee settlement was negotiated. The corporation has made great efforts to pivot to digital and to find ways of connecting with young audiences, but the time has come to acknowledge that on its own it cannot achieve what it needs to with that demographic. It would benefit immensely from a new, deep and durable relationship with younger audiences at scale.

For Channel 4, the risk is different but just as stark. It has always prided itself on being smaller, nimble, and more disruptive. But in a world of global streaming, “small and nimble” can start to look like under-capitalised and vulnerable. The advertising market is fragmenting. Production costs are rising. The channel’s ability to take creative risks depends on a financial base that is no longer guaranteed. It needs scale – not to become safe and bland, but to ensure it still exists a decade from now.

As charter renewal begins, questions on the BBC’s future are starting to revolve around the possibility of advertising and subscription-based services.

But there is a different solution: a merger between the BBC and Channel 4.

This would address both of their problems at once. The BBC would gain more of the younger, increasingly diverse audiences it desperately needs for a long-term future. Channel 4 would gain the scale and security it needs to keep commissioning the bold, distinctive work that has always been its hallmark.

Together they could build a single, world-class public service media platform that is genuinely capable of competing in a global market.

Needless to say, there would be objections. How would the advertising model work? Would Channel 4’s irreverent tone be smothered by BBC bureaucracy?

Such concerns are real but could be overcome with political and institutional courage. It is far easier for ministers to tinker at the margins than to rethink the entire architecture of public service broadcasting. It is more comfortable for executives to protect their fiefdoms than to imagine themselves as part of something larger. But comfort is not a strategy. In the absence of bold change and reform, both organisations will slowly move towards irrelevance with younger audiences slipping further away.

The question, then, is not whether a merger between the BBC and Channel 4 would be complicated. Of course it would. The most pressing question is whether we are prepared to let two British institutions wither on the margins of a global entertainment market, or whether we are willing to give them the scale and strength they need to thrive.

In an age of giants, muddling through as we are is the most dangerous option of all. That can only lead to demise.

TWO

THE terms for the decennial review of the BBC’s Royal Charter have been set. Unsurprisingly, the Government has chosen to avoid asking the difficult question of whether the licence fee continues to make sense. While raising other forms of revenue will be considered, the regressive tax on those consuming live media is going to stay.

This is a missed opportunity. The licence fee has become an embarrassing anachronism. The notion that a licence is required to watch live content produced by broadcasters charging their own independent fees to consumers is a bizarre legacy of early arguments over radio broadcasting. If it has failed to keep pace with the developments in media of the last century, it has certainly failed to keep pace with those in the new millennium.

Yet the BBC is financially reliant upon this structure, and desperate to retain it. This unique and privileged position allows the organisation of being able to charge not only their own customers, but those of their direct competitors. The results, however, are strictly negative.

The BBC is simultaneously desperate to retain public approval and also to maintain the line that it produces public services which would otherwise have no home. These objectives are in clear tension: the first drives it to produce the sort of content commercial stations would already produce; the second, a sort of Reithian public education. In practice, the former objective seems to dominate, and the latter instinct to be redirected into nakedly political exercises that promote the views of the organisation’s staff.

It is difficult if not inconceivable to argue that this activity permits the subsidies given to the BBC through the licence fee – particularly when they increasingly drag Britain into disrepute.

President Trump’s lawsuit against the broadcaster for misrepresentation – and the long, shameful list of incidents demonstrating bias on foreign policy issues – illustrate how problems for the state broadcaster can become problems for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

Given this, it would have been better to rip the sticking plaster off before the Government confirmed the BBC’s autonomy over the licence fee. It should have made clear to the BBC that it must prepare for a future without it, and begin to separate the state from the broadcaster. This is, after all, the long-term direction of travel. As things stand, the inevitable has been postponed, and the adjustment will be all the harder when it eventually arrives.

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Arts, Culture, Literature, Poetry

Poetry for Autumn: A collection

SEPTEMBER – NOVEMBER

– note: intermittent and not always concurrent days.

12 November · ‘No One Cares Less than I’ · Edward Thomas

In this poem Edward Thomas can be seen to parody the opening lines of Brooke’s “The Soldier”. In response to Brooke’s notion that, should he die in “some corner of a foreign field”, that place shall be “for ever England”, Thomas responds that he doesn’t care whether he is “destined to lie / Under a foreign clod”. Here the poet warns the reader of the dangers of patriotism and the glorification of war. Thomas died on 9 April 1917 in Pas-de-Calais, France. He was thirty-nine years old.

‘No one cares less than I,

Nobody knows but God,

Whether I am destined to lie

Under a foreign clod,’

Were the words I made to the bugle call in the morning.

But laughing, storming, scorning,

Only the bugles know

What the bugles say in the morning,

And they do not care, when they blow

The call that I heard and made words to early this morning.

Edward Thomas’s short but powerful poem ‘No one cares less than I” (sometimes subtitled Bugle Call) is a poignant reflection on fatalism, wartime detachment, and the impersonal nature of conflict. Written during World War I, it encapsulates the stoic acceptance of death by a soldier – a sentiment that tragically foreshadowed Thomas’s own death in 1917.

The opening lines are a bleak declaration of indifference regarding his own survival:

“No one cares less than I, / Nobody knows but God, / Whether I am destined to lie / Under a foreign clod,”

This expresses a complete resignation to fate. The soldier is beyond worry, having accepted that his destiny is out of his hands and known only to God. The euphemism “foreign clod” refers simply to being buried abroad, highlighting the likelihood of a soldier’s death in France.

The most striking element is between detachment and the impersonal war: between the soldier’s personal words and the impersonal nature of the bugle call. The soldier makes his words to the call, imposing his private anxiety and acceptance onto an official, militaristic sound.

“Were the words I made to the bugle call in the morning.”

The bugles themselves, however, do not care. They are described as “laughing, storming, scorning,” suggesting a vibrant, chaotic, and unfeeling force.

The Indifferent Machine: The bugles function as a metaphor for the entire war machine. They know the reality of war, but they are completely indifferent to the individual soldier’s fate:

“Only the bugles know / What the bugles say in the morning, / And they do not care, when they blow”

The bugle call signals routine, duty, and the possibility of imminent action and death, but it has no humanity or empathy. The individual soldier’s life is merely a step in the larger, noisy, and uncaring rhythm of the military.

The poem is structured in a single stanza with a relatively conversational tone that belies the seriousness of its subject.

The rhythm is irregular, mimicking natural speech and the somewhat awkward fit of the soldier’s personal thoughts to the military rhythm of the bugle. The rhyming couplets (AABB for the first half, then a more complex CC DDEE pattern) creates a sense of simplicity and finality.

On diction, Thomas uses plain and direct language (“Nobody knows but God,” “foreign clod”), which contributes to the poem’s sense of stoicism and realism. There is no elaborate poetic flourish, just the blunt observation of a man facing the imminent possibility of death.

The poem stands as a powerful and understated example of WWI poetry, moving away from romantic heroism toward a stark acknowledgement of the soldier’s reality and the sheer cold indifference of the war.


11 November · In Flanders Fields · John McCrae

John McCrae was a Canadian doctor who served as a Lieutenant-Colonel in the First World War. The poem was published in 1915, and its immediate success led to it being quoted in propaganda as part of the war efforts. Its reference to the red poppies of Flanders led to the symbolic wearing of poppies on Remembrance Day each year. McCrae died of pneumonia during combat service in 1918, just eight months before the war ended.

1

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

2

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

3

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

“In Flanders Fields” is a powerful and enduring lyric poem written by Canadian military doctor Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae in May 1915, during the Second Battle of Ypres in World War I. The poem is written from the perspective of the fallen soldiers, speaking from their graves.

The poem starkly juxtaposes images of the natural world and life against the grim reality of war and death.

. Natural/Life: Poppies blooming, larks “bravely singing” in the sky, and memories of the dead who “lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.”

. War/Death: “Crosses, row on row,” the barely heard sounds of the larks “amid the guns below,” and the soldiers who are now “the dead.”

The most enduring image is that of the red poppies growing over the graves. This image of poppy symbolism, inspired by the reality McCrae witnessed, became the global symbol for military remembrance. The poppies represent a commemoration of the fallen and the resilience of nature amidst destruction.

The final stanza shifts from sorrowful reflection to a command and a warning to the living:

. The dead pass a “torch” to the living, symbolising the continuation of the fight or the cause.

. The living are urged to “take up our quarrel with the foe.”

. The powerful warning, “If ye break faith with us who die, / We shall not sleep,” stresses the duty of the living to honour the soldiers’ sacrifice by ensuring their fight was not in vain.

The structure and form of the poem is a 15-line rondeau, a French form, though McCrae’s use of it is relatively free.

It is composed of three stanzas, each with a distinct focus:

Stanza 1: Sets the scene with the imagery of the poppies, crosses, larks, and guns – contrasting tranquillity with battle.

Stanza 2: Gives voice to the dead, reflecting on their lost lives and peaceful moments.

Stanza 3: Issues the poignant and challenging appeal to the living. The rhyme scheme (AABBA AABBC CCDDE) and meter contribute to an elegiac (mournful and sad) and stately tone, giving a sense of solemn rhythm appropriate for a memorial. The abrupt end of lines, as noted by critics, sometimes conveys the suddenness of the soldiers’ deaths.


9 November · Here Dead We Lie · A. E. Housman

Like Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke, A. E. Housman wrote some of his most famous poetry during the Great War. This poem reminds us that many of the soldiers were very young.

Here dead we lie because we did not choose

To live and shame the land from which we sprung.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose,

But young men think it is, and we were young.

A.E. Housman’s short poem, “Here Dead We Lie,” (also titled “Here dead lie we”), is a powerful, elegiac epigram that captures the tragic irony of young lives lost in war, often perceived as a reflection on World War I.

The poem consists of just one four-line stanza, and is spoken by a collective voice of deceased soldiers.

The voice is a collective “we” – the dead soldiers themselves – speaking from the grave with a sense of stoic and bitter resignation. The direct address immediately establishes a sombre, reflective tone, setting the poem as an epitaph or lament.

The first two lines state the reason for their death: a choice not to live in shame. This points to the intense pressure of patriotic nationalism and duty prevalent during wartime. They died to avoid the perceived dishonour of being a coward or deserting their country.

“Here dead we lie because we did not choose / To live and shame the land from which we sprung.”

The emotional core of the poem lies in the final two lines, which present a stark, philosophical contrast:

. The Adult/World View: “Life, to be sure, / Is nothing much to lose,” – This line is brutally ironic. It suggests that, in the grand scheme or from the perspective of older, detached generations (or commanders), a young man’s life is expendable. This cynicism reflects Housman’s often-pessimistic worldview.

. The Soldiers’ View: “But young men think it is, and we were young.” – This is the tragic turn. The soldiers, now dead, realise that they, as young men, did value life immensely, believing it was everything to lose. Their noble sacrifice, made out of a sense of patriotic duty, is ultimately undercut by the tragic realisation that they gave up what they considered most precious.

The poem is remarkable for its brevity and clarity. Housman uses a simple quatrain (four-line stanza) with an AABB rhyme scheme (choose/lose, sprung/young) and a relatively consistent meter (often iambic tetrameter), which creates a controlled and epigrammatic style that makes the bitter message even more impactful. The simplicity of the language gives the poem a stark, universal resonance.

In short, “Here Dead We Lie” is an extremely concentrated expression of the waste of youth in war. It critiques the patriotic fervour that led young men to sacrifice their lives based on a belief in a value (“honour,” “shame”) that, from the perspective of the grave, seems tragically misplaced compared to the immense value of the life they lost.


7 November · from As You Like It · William Shakespeare

This song is sung at the end of the second act of Shakespeare’s comedy As You Like It, when the runaway gentleman, Orlando, and his old faithful servant, Adam, arrive at the court of an exiled Duke who is living as an outlaw in the Forest of Arden. Despite the song’s many references to human ingratitude and feigned friendship, the travellers receive a hearty welcome at the feast.

1

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man’s ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

2

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

That dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remembered not.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly . . .

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

William Shakespeare’s work “As You Like It” primarily refers to his renowned pastoral comedy play. As a whole, it contains several significant poems and songs, most famously the monologue often referred to as a poem: “All the world’s a stage.”

Written around 1599, As You Like It contrasts the artificial and corrupt life of the court with the relative freedom and harmony of nature in the Forest of Arden.

This famous piece, “Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” is a song from As You Like It (Act II, Scene 7). It is sung by the character Amiens to Duke Senior and his exiled court in the Forest of Arden.

The song’s main purpose is to contrast the tangible, physical harshness of nature with the far greater and more enduring pain inflicted by human cruelty and betrayal. It is a melancholic comparison: the singer finds the harshness of the winter wind to be less unkind and less sharp than the emotional pain caused by human failings, specifically ingratitude and false friendship.

Stanza 1: The Winter Wind

The speaker directly addresses the winter wind, personifying it as an antagonist.

. Comparison – The wind’s “tooth is not so keen” as “man’s ingratitude.”

The wind’s harshness (“breath be rude”) is bearable because it is impersonal and unseen. It is simply nature’s way.

The bitterness of a cold, physical element is preferable to the visible, psychological wound of betrayal from a person you trusted.

Stanza 2: The Bitter Sky

The speaker challenges the freezing sky, and makes a similar comparison.

. Comparison – The “bitter sky” does not “bite so nigh” as “benefits forgot” (kindnesses that have been forgotten or ignored).

The metaphor is apparent: The cold can literally “wrap the waters” (freeze them), but its “sting is not so sharp / As friend remembered not.”

The pain of an ungrateful mind that forgets past help and friendship is a deeper and much sharper sorrow than any physical cold or frost.

The refrain, repeated after each main stanza, offers a cynical but ultimately resilient resolution to this painful truth:

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly . . .

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

This life is most jolly.

. The Green Holly: The holly, with its persistent green leaves and sharp thorns, is a traditional symbol of endurance during winter. It represents the resilience needed to face life’s hardships.

. Cynicism: The lines “Most friendship is feigning (false), most loving mere folly” express a profound disillusionment with human connection. The singer has concluded that loyalty in relationships is rare.

. The “Jolly” Twist: The final line, “This life is most jolly,” provides a jarring counterpoint. It is not an expression of genuine happiness, but a form of stoicism or resigned acceptance. The sentiment is: Since friendship and love are largely fake, one should stop caring, take life lightly, and force a merry outlook to cope with the inevitable betrayal.

A number of poetic devices are used throughout the song, namely:

. Personification: Giving human qualities to natural elements (“winter wind,” “bitter sky,” “Thy tooth,” “Thy sting”). This elevates nature to a moral force, contrasting it with human morality.

 . A-B-A-B-C-C Rhyme Scheme: The tight, musical structure makes the song memorable and contributes to the rhythmic and melancholic tone.

. Juxtaposition: The stark contrast between the physical pain of the cold and the emotional pain of ingratitude is the core device.

. Repetition: The repeated refrain emphasises the core message of resignation. The song serves as an integral part of As You Like It, providing a brief, beautiful moment of melancholy and realism amid the playful romance and idealism of the Forest of Arden. It echoes the cynical philosophy of Jaques, reminding the exiled court (and the audience) that while nature is harsh, human relationships can be even crueller.


4 November · Dulce et Decorum Est · Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen composed “Dulce et Decorum Est” while recovering from shell shock in 1917. The title is taken from a passage of Horace, the Roman poet, who wrote that dulce et decorum est pro patria mori: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”

While Horace meant to praise the bravery of the Roman army, in Owen’s poem the phrase takes on a bitter irony. Owen’s descriptions of war are not lofty and idealised but brutally graphic. He attacks the military propaganda of the time which encouraged “children ardent for some desperate glory” to serve in the war, setting the supposed sweetness of glory in battle in contrast with the horrendous reality.

Some verses in the third stanza have been omitted

1

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 gas-shells dropping softly behind.

2

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.

3

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,

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.

Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est” is one of the most powerful and widely cited anti-war poems to emerge from World War I. Written while Owen was recovering from shell shock in 1917 and published posthumously in 1920, the poem directly challenges the prevalent patriotic glorification of war.

The poem’s title is the beginning of a Latin phrase from the Roman poet Horace: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori which translates as “It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country.”

Owen uses this patriotic slogan with bitter irony. By vividly depicting the gruesome and unsightly realities of a soldier’s death, he refutes this “old Lie” in the final lines, asserting that there is nothing sweet or proper about the suffering and senseless violence of war.

Owen employs intense, graphic, and immediate sensory imagery to convey the utter horror of trench warfare, forcing the reader to witness in fine detail the reality he experienced.

The poem opens with soldiers described as “Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,” and “coughing like hags.” These similes immediately strip the soldiers of any heroic glamour, portraying them instead as broken, exhausted, and prematurely aged victims.

The central event is a sudden chlorine gas attack. Owen uses stark, vivid, and unsettling (if not very upsetting) language to describe the dying soldier. The descriptions are unflinching and these disturbing lines have been omitted from this site.

The two-line third stanza shifts the perspective to the speaker’s lasting trauma, the scene forever etched “In all my dreams before my helpless sight,” emphasising the psychological toll, or shell shock.

The poem is structured into four stanzas of varying length, initially adopting a loose ABAB CDCD rhyme scheme similar to the French Ballade form, though Owen subverts the form’s conventions. The shifting rhythm and incomplete rhymes often reflect the chaos and disharmony of the battlefield.

With ingenuity and adept use of the language Owen uses powerful sound devices to heighten the experience. In the full third stanza, onomatopoeia is used unsparingly which make the dying soldier’s agony visceral and auditory. The device of alliteration is also used: phrases like “writhing in his face” intensify the dreadful imagery.

The final stanza directly addresses the reader (“My friend, you would not tell with such high zest…”), making the critique personal and accusatory.

The poem’s enduring power lies in its relentless dedication to truth and its refusal to romanticise death, making it the definitive rebuttal to the lie of wartime glory.


3 November · The Girl with Many Eyes · Tim Burton

The American Tim Burton is best known for his film-directing work that includes The Nightmare Before Christmas and screen/film adaptations of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. He is also a writer and an artist, and much of his work reflects his quirky and fantastical imagination.

1

One day in the park,

I had quite a surprise.

I met a girl,

who had many eyes.

2

She was really quite pretty

(and also quite shocking)

and I noticed she had a mouth,

so we ended up talking.

3

We talked about flowers,

and her poetry classes,

and the problems she’d have

if she ever wore glasses.

4

It’s great to know a girl

who has many eyes,

but you get really wet

when she breaks down and cries.

The poem “The Girl with Many Eyes” by Tim Burton, first published in his book The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories, uses a bizarre character to explore themes of inner beauty, acceptance of difference, and the anxiety of being an outcast.

It tells of a narrator who meets a girl in a park described as “really quite pretty (and also quite shocking)” because she has “many eyes.” Despite her unusual appearance, the narrator strikes up a conversation with her, focusing on normal topics like “flowers” and “her poetry classes.”

The narrator’s willingness to look past the girl’s shocking appearance and engage with her suggests that inner connection and personality are more important than physical looks. The line, “It’s great to know a girl who has many eyes, but you get really wet when she breaks down and cries,” emphasises her humanity and vulnerability, suggesting that her unusual trait doesn’t override her basic emotions. The narrator sees her as “pretty” and “shocking,” indicating an appreciation that incorporates her oddity.

Like many of Burton’s creations (for example, Edward Scissorhands), the girl is a classic Burtonian outcast – a character who is physically different and therefore isolated or misunderstood. The poem is often interpreted as reflecting Burton’s own feelings of being an outsider growing up and his wish for others to break social conformity and connect with people who are different.

The final line, focusing on her tears, is a powerful reminder that despite her extraordinary nature, she experiences deep emotions. Her many eyes, perhaps a symbol of greater sensitivity or perception, also mean she “breaks down and cries,” showing her profound vulnerability.


1 November · No! · Thomas Hood

Thomas Hood was a nineteenth-century English author and poet. This poem is an example of a kind of extended pun, as Hood’s list of phrases beginning with “no” is revealed by the final line to be a list of all the negative characteristics of the month of November.

No sun – no moon!

No morn – no noon –

No dawn – no dust – no proper time of day.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member –

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,

November!

Thomas Hood’s poem “No!” is a playful, yet a poignant depiction of the month of November. It primarily focuses on the dismal and foggy conditions of London and the accompanying sense of isolation.

The phrases are taken from the single, long, free-form list of negations. Almost every line or phrase begins with the word ‘No,’ emphasising the overwhelming sense of absence. This relentless use of anaphora (repetition at the beginning of phrases) mimics the oppressive and monotonous nature of the November gloom. The lack of traditional meter or rhyme scheme contributes to a contemporary, conversational, and almost rambling feel. The poem captures a spontaneous outpouring of frustration.

The core of the poem in its longer form is the heavy debilitating London fog. This obscures everything and makes the city unrecognisable.

. Natural World: The fog obliterates the sky and natural markers (“No sun – no moon!”, “No sky – no earthly view – No distance looking blue –”). The typical vibrancy of nature is absent: “No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees / No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.”

. Urban Life: The dense fog makes navigation impossible (“No road – no street –”) and even hides architectural landmarks (“No end to any Row – No top to any steeple –”).

The poem in its entirety is based on the themes of isolation and disorientation. The bad weather keeps people indoors and apart, which commonly leads to a breakdown in social life. Familiar faces are unrecognisable (“No recognitions of familiar people”). The social spaces are deserted (“No park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility –”). Even communication is cut off (“No mail – no post – No news from any foreign coast –”).

With everything obscured – from the sun in the sky to the street across the way – the speaker feels a profound sense of disorientation, a lack of reference points, and a feeling of being trapped (“No travelling at all – no locomotion, No inkling of the way – no notion –”).

While the subject is dreary, the tone is not a serious lament or a dirge. Hood, also known as a humourist, maintains a light-hearted, exaggerated, and satirical tone. The sheer scale of the complaints and the exhaustive list of nothings are designed to amuse as much as to reflect a genuine melancholy. This makes the poem an engaging and accessible piece of social commentary on the November blues.

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