Pfresh's blog...

Proposal for last project

2008-05-22T07:52:00.001-07:00

I plan on making an Imovie 10 minutes long (obviously) about a clockwork orange. With a comparison with the book and the movie and why it would be good for the curriculum and about anthony burgess' history and life. I will also talk about the unique language called the Nadsat language in a clockwork orange and give some examples of the words. I will talk about how the book is great and that people should read it.

MacBeth from William Shakespeare

2008-02-26T11:06:00.000-08:00

I became angry when I heard we were reading MacBeth in fact I was very angry. I truly hate Shakespeare and his works. To me they are boring pointless stories that are not interesting at all. Whats the point in what his stories say? I believe its retarded and the language is confusing and angers me.

News courtesy of CNN.com

2008-02-25T20:43:00.000-08:00

On the stand, Cutts said he went to pick up his son, Blake, and became agitated when Davis, 26, wasn't moving fast enough to get the boy ready. He said he tried to leave her house, but she grabbed him to keep him from leaving, and he accidentally elbowed her in the throat.

Cutts told the jury he performed CPR on Davis and then tried to revive her with bleach. When he realized Davis was dead, Cutts said he panicked and put her in the back of his truck, so Blake wouldn't have to see his mother.

This story was told by an ex-cop Bobby Cutts Jr. saying he accidently murdered his wife and unborn child. I believe tis story is a lie and how he is just trying to get away from the death penalty. This story really stand out to me. Its disturbingto me of what people do in this world. Of how idiotic some people are. Bad things happen because of one thing. People don't think before they do something. When they do something bad they lie and cheat their way out. Its sad why people do it. I don't understand why they do it.

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:11:00.002-08:00

The Anxious Dead

O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.

John McCrae

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:11:00.001-08:00

Self-Destroyers

Load upon load of bomb and shell
Shakes down the brick and stone and dust,
But what does all this ruin spell
When only brick and stone are crushed?
Beneath your storm of steel the town
Shivers, and sinks slowly down,
And you believe that hearts lie deep
With homes under the rubble heap!
Your loss is greater than your gain;
Men whose homes are here no longer
Spread the fever of their anger
Through the length and breadth of Spain.
A million hearts you have made stronger,
You have armed a million men.
What you destroy, shatter burn,
Are not the things that in their turn
Will strike you and your cannons dumb,
Is not the spirit in whose name
We built an army, and defied
Your steel, your thunder and your flame:
These cannot die till we have died.
You understand so little. You
Have more than walls to batter through -
Men
Such as your brutish heroes never knew
the way to overcome.

Miles Tomalin

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:08:00.000-08:00

Simplify Me When I'm Dead

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye

and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.

Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.

Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore

the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.

Time's wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.

Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,

not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.

Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.

Keith Douglas

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:07:00.002-08:00

The Man He Killed

"Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
"But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him and he at me,
And killed him in his place.

"I shot him dead because -
Because he was my foe,
Just so - my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although

"He thought he'd 'list perhaps,
Off-hand like - just as I -
Was out of work - had sold his traps -
No other reason why.

"Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown."

Thomas Hardy

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:07:00.001-08:00

Into Battle

The naked earth is warm with Spring
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze;
And Life is Colour and Warmth and Light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight;
And who dies fighting has increase.
The fighting man shall from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.
All the bright company of Heaven
Hold him in their high comradeship,
The Dog-Star and the Sisters Seven,
Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together,
They stand to him each one a friend,
They gently speak in the windy weather;
They guide to valley and ridges' end.

The kestrel hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him 'Brother,brother,
'If this be the last song you shall sing
'Sing well, for you may not sing another;
Brother, sing'.

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,
Before the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses show him the nobler powers;
O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only Joy of Battle takes
Him by the throat, and makes him blind.

Through joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring much to know, that still
Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air Death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

Julian Grenfell

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:03:00.000-08:00

At A War Grave

No grave is rich, the dust that herein lies
Beneath this white cross mixing with the sand
Was viatl once, with skill of eye and hand
And speed of brain. These will not re-arise
These riches, nor will they be replaced;
They are lost and nothing now, and here is left
Only a worthless corpse of sense bereft,
Symbol of death, and sacrifice and waste.

John Jarmain

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:02:00.002-08:00

Retreat

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat
Across the stifling leagues of southern plain,
Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain,
Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet
And dusty smother of the August heat,
He dreamt of flowers in an English lane,
Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain -
All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet.
All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet -
The innocent names kept up a cool refrain -
All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet,
Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain,
Until he babbled like a child again -
"All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet."

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

War poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:02:00.001-08:00

It's a Queer Time

It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
When steel and fire go roaring through your head.
One moment you'll be crouching at your gun
Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun:
The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast -
No time to think - leave all - and off you go...
To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime -
Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West!
It's a queer time.

You're charging madly at them yelling "Fag!"
When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
And find ... you're digging tunnels through the hay
In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.
Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
You're back in the old sailor suit again.
It's a queer time.

Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out -
A great roar-the trench shakes and falls about
You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then... hullo!
Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,
Hanky to nose-that lyddite makes a stench -
Getting her pinafore all over grime.
Funny! because she died ten years ago!
It's a queer time.

The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click,
You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
Even good Christians don't like passing straight
From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate
To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime
Of golden harps ... and ... I'm not well to-day...
It's a queer time.

Robert Graves

war poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T17:01:00.000-08:00

How to Die

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.
You'd think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they've been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.

Siegfried Sassoon

War poems courtesy of http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

2008-02-14T16:58:00.000-08:00

Dauntless Dan

The cry went up for volunteers
To join the battle van
And then we gave three lusty cheers
And said here's Dauntless Dan!
For years upon the football field
He's been well to the fore
But to no living man he'll yield
In hatred of the Boer
They tried his ardour for to damp
By regulations stringent
But now he's in the Newtown Camp
Among the Fifth Contingent
They took him to the rifle butts
To try how he could aim
Although they said both eyes he shut
He got there all the same
He passed well through the riding test
Without a single spill
And now he ranks among the best
Does the Dauntless Dan McGill

Maurice McGill (for his father - Boer War 1899-1902)