Author's Note: Hello all! You are now participating in a little experiment of mine. What you see below is an interesting thing. What happened was this...I sat down to write a college essay a few days ago. I wanted to be a little different and do something unique for my essay. Unfortunately it didn't take long for my essay to not be an essay anymore. It turned into prose, which morphed into poetry. Here is the premier. Okay, the experiment...what do you think, do people reading on this site read more poetry orstories (literature format)? For the next two weeks I will record reviews submitted to both this version and other, attempting to get a gauge for which is the more popular form of fiction: poerty or prose.
Also, I must confess, the title is not mine. The full Latin quote is 'dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,' or 'it is sweet and good to die for one's country' I personally see connections between the piece and the full quote, but It is Sweet and Good to... works as well. Just to cover my back, there is a poem by Wilfred Owen (1893--1918)titled Dulce et Decorum Est. It is absolutely amazing, read it! It also has absolutely nothing to do with my Dulce et Decorum Est.
Dulce et Decorum Est
It is black. Not dark, black. Clouds haze the sky, blurring planes and stars, adding a soft, fuzzy, milky light to the moon. Houses are dark, their inhabitants not at home, driveways are dark—rock and stone and grass bereft of light producing abilities. The air is dark.
The only illumination comes from my headlights. They pass deftly o'er gravel, tree, and squirrel—the two of them. Their beams stretch and bend, attempting to rid me of this dark, but only further hiding what lays beyond their brilliance.
My radio is dead. It passed into silence many days ago, scratching and squeaking until nothing. It's better this way. No distractions…no distractions…Tires provide sound enough—crunching and grating. Mixing with gentle tones of classical winds and crickets hymns and night-birds halleluiah. The dark is kind.
It's comforting. The roads are silent—Big Island to Mount Eve to Pulaski Highway. Nothing is here, nor there,
nor any place I see. The air is sweet. It hums and sings and
dances on my tongue, in my hair, upon my clasping fingers.
It's reflective…a mirror, a stream, a hidden grove-pond of snowmelt water and smooth pebble baubles—a deep soul scryer of silent sayings. Sigh, let dawn ne'er begin.
Thank you. Sincerely, I thank you! Now please, please, please, please, please REVIEW! Your opinions truly matter right now. Remember the experiment!
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori: It is sweet and proper to die for one's country.