All posts tagged Poetry

Where women lead some men will go,
Let women show the way,
Their struggle for our kith and kind,
Won’t wait another day,
The deadlier of our species,
Her tongue and poisoned pen.
A woman’s heart the burning brand,
That lights the way for men.

When women set example,
To save our folk, our race,
The fairest of our species,
Will show her other face;
Protective of her children,
Defensive of her kind;
When men are gentle sleeping,
Or true men hard to find.


Michael Walsh

Mike Walsh was a freelance media writer and columnist for thirty-years.

The Irish journalist now writes and broadcasts solely for independent alternative media.


The following poem was written in 1917 by a brilliant young army lieutenant while hospitalised for shell shock (now known as post-traumatic stress disorder) in Craiglockhart War Hospital near Edinburgh.

It is probably the best known poem of the First World War.

It describes a gas attack.

Wilfred Owen, who had been sent to Craiglockhart after surviving numerous horrendous combat experiences, including being trapped in a trench under heavy fire for several days with the remains of a fellow officer.

Although he could have avoided being sent back to action, he insisted on returning to the front.

Wilfred Owen was killed in action on November 4th 1918, a week before the Armistice.

wilfred owen

He was 25.

Dulce et Decorum est.
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.

Arianwen, like a bright star in the sky,
The magic inside her will never die.
Superficial beauty makes the spider come alive,
In the snow this spider will thrive.
In the dark, this spider glows,
As her exquisite pattern always shows.

Her magic is more than you can see,
Gwyn will soon find out what the future will be.
Her web is soft and filled with mystery,
She will continue to remain throughout history.

She flew into Gwyn’s hand by the mountainside,
It was the wind that made her twist and slide.
She leads Gwyn to curiosity,
Leaving him blind for what the future is to be….

Written by my 11-year old daughter and her friend.

Inspired by the Childrens’s Book ‘The Snow Spider’ by Jenny Nimmo