Your complete ANZAC Day guide

[Histrionics]

Completely off topic.

Opti what happened to your BF gold or plat membership tag?? Looks strange.

 

[Pie eyed]

Beach Burial

Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.
Between the sob and clubbing of gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;
And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -
‘Unknown seaman’ – the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men’s lips,
Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as enemies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.




Kenneth Slessor


In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae (1872–1918)
​

 

[Optimax]

Completely off topic.

Opti what happened to your BF gold or plat membership tag?? Looks strange.

Ive got no idea

to the suggestions feedback and questions board i go

 

[Histrionics]

Ive got no idea

to the suggestions feedback and questions board i go

Haha.

 

[smiddaz123]

better soccer teams

lolwut

 

[mdc]

It was part of the cringe. Australians write poetry too.

The cringe was/is well-founded, particularly where writing is concerned.

 

[Optimax]

lolwut

Im talking about Italy and i might add internazionale are leading their semi final and no english teams are in the semis

but really im waiting for him to snap

 

[Snag Breac]

Not as bad as the trite little song about being 'girt by sea'

Couldn't agree more. But it's still not good enough. We wouldn't send out a second-rate team on Anzac Day, so why use a third-rate poem?

Pie eyed's suggestion of the Slessor's Beach Burial is far superior. And if you want trite, use Aussie trite, such as this Dorothea McKellar:

THERE are some that go for love of a fight
And some for love of a land,
And some for a dream of the world set free
Which they barely understand.

A dream of the world set free from Hate--
But splendidly, one and all,
Danger they drink as 'twere wine of Life
And jest as they reel and fall.

Clean aims, rare faculties, strength and youth,
They have poured them freely forth
For the sake of the sun-steeped land they left
And the far green isle in the north.

What can we do to be worthy of them,
Now hearts are breaking for pride?
Give comfort at least to the wounded men
And the kin of the man that died.

 

[Snag Breac]

The cringe was/is well-founded, particularly where writing is concerned.

Then you write you way out of it. You certainly don't opt for mother-country mediocre.

 

[Keele]

WTF is that, that's and English war poem, seriously WTF.

You could have got a US war poem and had more relevance, as after WW1 the poems didn't exactly help us much, and we fought more side by side with the Yanks, Canadaians and Kiws then the Poms.

There are so many Aussie war poems, and they choose that, seriously.

Mate sorry but you have no idea what you are talking about and what significance this means to ALL ANZACS served and serving.

You should hold your opinion back on something you have no clue about what so ever.

Diggers were saying this ode of an evening while their best mates lay lying dead on the battle field awaiting to be collected, sons daughters, wives and returned diggers have stood side by side saying this at stand to for many a year.

I served proudly in the forces for 6 years. so I say WTF to you.

 

[Snag Breac]

For the sake of peace between Opti and Pricey - an excerpt from Banjo Patterson's, We're All Australians Now. (has about 47 verses)

Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!

So now we'll toast the Third Brigade,
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.

Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.

And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle bough,
To symbolise our unity,
We're all Australians now.

 

[The Big League]

Good ol' Banjo.
You got any Archie Roach Snag?

 

[Snag Breac]

Mate sorry but you have no idea what you are talking about and what significance this means to ALL ANZACS served and serving.

You should hold your opinion back on something you have no clue about what so ever.

Diggers were saying this ode of an evening while their best mates lay lying dead on the battle field awaiting to be collected, sons daughters, wives and returned diggers have stood side by side saying this at stand to for many a year.

I served proudly in the forces for 6 years. so I say WTF to you.

Then if would have more relevance, because the words would have a significance beyond the poor poetry inherent in them. My bad more than Matty's, Keele. Pax.

 

[Snag Breac]

Good ol' Banjo.
You got and Archie Roach Snag?

I'll dig through the husband's car when he gets home. He's a fan.

I much prefer Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu - truly a voice from heaven. Don't understand the words, but you don't have to. Some of the most moving sounds I've ever heard.

 

[Keele]

My bad more than Matty's, Keele. Pax

No problems mate

Side By Side


cheers

 

[THATSGOLD]

pumped can't wait

 

[Old Spice]

Not as bad as the trite little song about being 'girt by sea'

Advance Australia Fair is not free of British phat-cracking:

When gallant Cook from Albion sail’d,
To trace wide oceans o’er,
True British courage bore him on,
Till he landed on our shore.
Then here he raised Old England’s flag,
The standard of the brave;
With all her faults we love her still,
Brittannia rules the wave!
In joyful strains then let us sing​

“Advance Australia fair!”

On Collingwood and the ANZAC / WWI tradition, the seat of Yarra in which Collingwood sat, was home to some of the staunchest opponents of conscription. The 1916 referendum result shows wealthy seats like Henty (Brighton area), Kooyong (Glen Iris area) and Balaclava (St Kilda area) were mostly in favour at 68.23, 66.96 & 64.87%. In Yarra, the yes vote was 29.1, in Melbourne Ports 34.68 and Melbourne 41.01. The 2nd referendum results were even more emphatic.

Copeland was all for continuation of football in 1915 when every jingoist was calling for it to wind up. That position was affirmed by Collingwood President Jim Sharp the next year. Collingwood kept playing with Richmond, Carlton and Fitzroy in the 1916 season when the other 5 had pulled out, arguing continuation detracted from the gravity of the war.

When drill sergeants turned up after the defeat of the 1916 Referendum to recruit at Vic Park, Brunswick St and Lakeside Ovals they were abused and attacked by the crowd. When Billy Hughes address an MCG footy crowd in 1917, he was met with a hail of bottles from the Punt Rd end.

It's strange that the further you get from the time, the more bonhomie seems to surround it. ANZAC Day celebrations almost didn't happen and it wasn't universally popular with ex-servicemen. The last ANZAC, Alec Campbell, is a case in point.

 

[Primetime Pricey]

Bah

we have better food
better women
better soccer players
better soccer coaches (hint)
better soccer teams
better history
better everything

You chose wrong pricey lol

better soccer teams? lol

Also i wouldnt say switching sides in the war was something to be proud of

 

[Optimax]

better soccer teams? lol

Also i wouldnt say switching sides in the war was something to be proud of

Never switched sides they just gave up very quickly.

Unlike the french who also gave up in a flash it was a war the people never wanted to be involved in, I do understand france was invaded and Italy was as such an invading force

The Italian national team better then English national team, Internazionale leading their semi final Man U lost to Bayern in the quarters. Come on snap dammit

 

[The Magnificent Seven]

...The Italian national team better then English national team, Internazionale leading their semi final Man U lost to Bayern in the quarters. Come on snap dammit

Ahem. ANZAC Day.

 

[Old Spice]

Unlike the french who also gave up in a flash it was a war the people never wanted to be involved in, I do understand france was invaded and Italy was as such an invading force

The French lost 1.3 million men which cooled their ardour for a 2nd dip. Luckily the hot-dog eating, late-monkeys from America entered the war at the end.

 

[Snag Breac]

No problems mate

Side By Side


cheers

Exactly.

Here's a brilliant poem that's very pertinent to our discussion. It's by teh Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz

Dedication

You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.

What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty,
Blind force with accomplished shape.

Here is the valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city,
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.

What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived.

 

[So Fresh]

Awesome stuff, can't wait!

 

[Old Spice]

Poetry gets to the nub of the human tragedy of war, but I've never read anything more sad than this extract from Primo Levi about the Holocaust.

Hurbinek was a nobody, a child of death, a child of Auschwitz. He looked about three years old, no one knew anything of him, he could not speak and had no name; that curious name, Hurbinek, had been given to him by us, perhaps by one of the women who had interpreted with those syllables one of the inarticulate sounds that the baby let out now and again. He was paralysed from the waist down, with atrophied legs, as thin as sticks; but his eyes, lost in his triangular and wasted face, flashed terribly alive, full of demand, assertion, of the will to break loose, to shatter the tomb of his dumbness. The speech he lacked, which no one had bothered to teach him, the need of speech charged his stare with explosive urgency: it was a stare both savage and human, even mature, a judgement, which none of us could support, so heavy was its force and anguish.

None of us, that is, except Henek: he was in the bunk next to me, a robust and hearty Hungarian boy of fifteen. Henek spent half his day beside Hurbinek's pallet. He was maternal rather than paternal; had our precarious coexistence lasted more than a month, it is extremely probable that Hurbinek would have learnt to speak from Henek; certainly better than from the Polish girls who, too tender and too vain, inebriated him with caresses and kisses, but shunned intimacy with him.

Henek, on the other hand, calm and stubborn, sat beside the little sphinx, immune to the distressing power he emanated; he brought him food to eat, adjusted his blankets, cleaned him with skillful hands, without repugnance; and he spoke to him, in Hungarian naturally, in a slow patient voice. After a week, Henek announced seriously, but without a shadow of selfconsciousness that Hurbninek 'could say a word''. What word? He did not know, a difficult word, not Hungarian; something like 'mass-klo', 'matisklo'. During the night we listened carefully: it was true, from Hurbinek's corner there occasionally came a sound, a word. It was not, admittedly, always exactly the same word, but it was certainly an articulated word; or better, several slightly different articulated words, experimental variations on a theme, on a a root, perhaps on a name.

Hurbinek continued in his stubborn experiments for as long as he lived. In the following days everybody listened to him in silence, anxious to understand, and among us there were speakers of all the languages of Europe; but Hurbinek's word remained secret. No, it was certainly not a message, it was not a revelation; perhaps it was his name, if it had ever fallen to his lot to be given a name; perhaps (according to one of our hypotheses) it meant 'to eat', or 'bread'; or perhaps 'meat' in Bohemian, as one of us who knew that language maintained.

Hurbinek, who was three years old and perhaps had been born in Auschwitz and had never seen a tree; Hurbinek, who had fought like a man, to the last breath, to gain his entry into the world of men, from which a bestial power had excluded him; Hurbinek, the nameless, whose tiny forearm - even his - bore the tattoo of Auschwitz; Hurbinek died in the first days of March 1945, free but not redeemed. Nothing remains of him: he bears witness through these words of mine.

 

[Snag Breac]

And Levi even managed to wring some humour out of the situation.