caughtinanetwork | Time for some culture, everyone

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Time for some culture, everyone

[The camera flicks on, showing a young troll sitting down, a large book open on his crossed legs. There's a stack of books behind him, and the gentle lighting and general hush all around him indicate that he's in the library.]

I found this book of human poetry, and found a beautiful poem. I had no idea you humans had it in you. This is true highblood lyricism; if I didn't know better, I would think this Samuel Taylor Coleridge fellow was a blueblood.

[He clears his throat, then begins reading from the book.]

To a Young Ass, Its Mother Being Tethered Near It, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Poor little Foal of an oppresséd race!
I love the languid patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,
That never thou dost sport along the glade?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
'Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes'?
Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain
To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain?
And truly, very piteous is her lot--
Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot,
Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
Pity--best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me that He lives like thee,
Half famish'd in a land of Luxury!
How askingly its footsteps hither bend?
It seems to say, 'And have I then one friend?'
Innocent foal! thou poor despis'd forlorn!
I hail thee Brother--spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!

[He carefully closes the book, his face as close to beaming as he's willing to get in public.]

Magnificent.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

fROM THE R1GHT MOUTH,
1 L1KE ANYTH1NG.
}:)

[Uh... what?]

D --> Do you want me to find a poem for you

sURE.

D --> About what

tHERE ARE MANY TH1NGS 1 COULD ASK TO HEAR OR READ,
bUT 1 RESPECT YOUR TASTES, eQU1US.

D --> You're a Cavalreaper, right
D --> Let me find one about war
D --> Hold on

[There's a pause, and then Equius switches from text to video.]

This one seems pretty famous.

Dulce Et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen.

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.

[Best to ignore the glassy look in his eyes, but he does well to hide it with a small smile. Equius, something like that is far more depressing than what you should have gone for. And not only does it depress him but it makes him yearn to see his men again. But he'll be damned if he lets the young blue blood see that.]

Wonderfully written, I'll give you that.

[Perhaps his voice is bit quieter than it normally is, but Equius wouldn't know that.]

I'm not sure I quite understand what was going on, but yes, wonderfully written.

This Wilfred Owen human wrote several. Would you like to hear another one?

[Summoner moves a little, setting the SFC down on what looks to be a table and nods into the camera of the propped up device, his chin setting on a hand. He probably shouldn't... that last one was really getting to him. But Equius doesn't know him well enough to tell that about him so he'll deal. Besides, it seemed like reading poetry did a lot for the kid. And though he had no problem before with Equius, he'd like to get to know him even more now.]

Hit me, blue boy.

Mmmmm, maybe not Wilfred Owen. His poems talk about some war the humans fought, and I think I would understand them better if I knew about that particular war. How about this one instead?

Forever England, by Rupert Brooke.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

[He's not quite sure what or who 'England' is. It sounds like some city or town, but again the poem is enjoyable to listen to, and this one at least has a lighter feel to it.]

Oh good, shorter than the last but I don't mind that at all. I wish I had known you had a love of poetry, Tinkertot.

[Wait, what? Hold the SFC, record-scratching sound, WHAT?!]

Tinkertot?

[A wide smile.]

Tinker-tot.

What on Alternia would possess you to call me Tinkertot?

bECAUSE 1 CALL THAT STUD OF AN ANCESTOR YOU GOT, t1NK.
yOU'RE GO1NG TO JUST HAVE TO DEAL W1TH TH1S.

WHAT?!

Why do you call Dadleer that?!

[Whoops, accidentally slipped and used Darkleer's nickname on the network.]

Dadleer? Huh, that's interesting.

[A smirk, happily watching Equius bust a not over this.]

[Crap. Crap crap CRAP!]

Forget you heard that. It means nothing.

[Smile.]

Okay.

[Wow, he feels like an idiot. Don't mind Equius, he's just going to silently sulk for awhile, and hope Darkleer doesn't see this and chew him out over the network.]

[Stares at him for a moment, leaning forward slightly.]

What's wrong, kid?

I just made myself look foolish over the network.

Nah. I don't think so. And I know fools.

No one is supposed to know I call Darkleer that. He told us to only use that name at home.

I'm sure it'll be okay for me to know it. [Smirk.]

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video; aaaaand my other favorite poem, that is wildly inappropriate for Summoner

video; Haha ohhh wow.

video; Vou, you've awoken my passion for WWI poets. prepare for bombardment!

video; Equius, honey...

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