"The world is not a lodging-house at Brighton, which we are to leave because it is miserable. It is the fortress of our family, with the flag flying on the turret, and the more miserable it is the less we should leave it."
-G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy
This here blog is a glimpse or two or three at the condition of the 'fortress of our family' through the eyes Timothy Goddard, a Christian writer with an unhealthy interest in politics living in the Puget Sound area.
More on poetry and war I lamented a while ago about the state of poets and their tendency to be immature. Instapundit has a few links regarding poets who take a more sensible attitude towards war, including the Opinion Journal's collection of pro-war poetry. Some of it is crap, some of it is good, some of it is quite good, as is the case with poetry. These two are my favorites.
Farewell to a hero by Thomas Newton, a tribute to CIA officer Johnny "Mike" Spann, the first US casualty in Afghanistan. From Winfield, Alabama, to the sands
Of far away Afghanistan; from strife
To solitude and friends and grateful hands
Soothing his son, his girls and his wife;
From happy hometown football fans' loud cheers,
To solemn ceremony, solemn praise,
All confirmed by a grateful nation's tears
As seven polished Marine rifles raise;
From aquamarine birthstone, childish fun,
Winfield High, Auburn, and a need to roam
To stately white headstone at Arlington
National Cemetery, his new home;
From their first words and Cupid's gentle shove,
To her last farewell, "Semper Fi, my love."
Upon the War in Iraq By Rob Rice The time has come for thunderbolts
Of steel from the sky.
It is now right that murderers
Instead of children, die.
They have forged chains and thumbscrews while
We have made pleas and threats.
The portraits of the killer smile
But he must pay his debts.
A mountainside is split in two,
His coward legions fall.
His shackled cities fade from view
Beneath a smoky pall.
Armored treads sound in the street,
The tanks are not his own.
He has bid many to be slain.
He'll face his death alone.
Cineas told Pyrrhus that
'Rome has a thousand heads.'
And Rome was a republic, strong
After that king was dead.
The tyrant butchers live in fear
And we go on and on.
A century shall find us here
And every tyrant gone.
Our carriers loom off his coast.
Our bombers fill his skies.
And brave, skilled men with stealthy tread
Prepare his grim surprise.
Grant, and Sherman, Patton, Greene
Have taught us to make war.
We now pick up their legacy
And free the world once more.