The Summer of 1914

The summer of nineteen-fourteen 
was made idyllic 
through the prism of memory: 

There were images of a lazy purling stream 
meandering through the peaceful village 
under a buzz of bees and hummingbird wings; 
of high teas with strawberry and cream, 
of respectful peasants at their tillage, 
of order and stability in all things. 

Poof! It was nothing of the sort. 
One can objectively report 
and the diarists of the time will openly confess 
that the world was already in a mess 
for quite some time before ... 
ready and willing to go to war! 

The apogee of pride and prosperity 
reached a peak in about eighteen eighty six 
at home, and in farflung British dominions; 
the Empire commenced its slide downhill 
with the Second Irish Home Rule Bill; 
and Victorian gentlemen, with asperity, 
were wont, ever afterwards, to fix 
that date in their opinions. 

By mathematical extraction 
(learned at school as subtraction) 
there are twenty-eight years left adrift 
between 1886 and 1914; 
and, as can be readily foreseen, 
this will allow all blame to shift 
for decline and contamination 
on that hapless generation. 

Conscience made brief appearances 
and (inevitable) disappearances 
as the ancient ruling classes 
gave ground to the growling masses. 
Under brave Parnell, until he fell, 
(hounded to his death by his own countrymen, I might add, 
Irish shoneens attack only a wounded lion, bedad!!) 
the Irish set out to leave the UK, 
and it's fair to say 
this was not the first nor last temptation 
to do so by this ancient nation. 
(Let's leave it at that: today, at least, 
we are five-sixths OK. Up the Republic!!) 

But in Britain at the time, what was going on? 
Even today, it's not easy to say: 
"I am convinced" was being replaced by "I think, I feel". 
The bedrock the Empire was born upon 
was slowly being whittled away: 
taken for granted, it was not quite real. 
Extending the benefits of English civilization 
was a minor not major consideration; 
extracting profits was no longer the aim, 
so what was the point of the game? 
Power and pride, perhaps, 
and in the event of a lapse 
overseas employment for wayward sons 
and a chance to try out new guns. 

Whatever happens we have got 
The Maxim Gun, and they have not. 


Don't you bloody dare rebel!! 
We'll send you to hell 
with shot and shell!! 

After the Crimean ( 1856-58 ) disaster, 
slowly, and then faster and faster, 
the despised but tough little British Army 
trained on rebellious natives. 
They were ever victorious 
happy and glorious 
in India (1857) and China (1860), 
in Ethiopia (1867) and Zululand (1879) 
and ever and always 
on the wild and woolly Afghan frontier. 

So when the Boers came along, 
that would be South Africa 1899, 
they thought there'd be nothing to it. 
Well, they lived to rue it. 
The Boers -- Dutch white settlers -- 
initially kicked them in the ass 
and the world stood up and said ... Yesss!!! 
At last it has come to pass. 
Arrogance has met its match. 

Of course, they went on to win in the end, 
but only after many a humiliating defeat, 
dealt out, to malicious glee, by "European" opponents 
for a change; but when you think of the range 
and consider the various components 
of this war -- the barbed wire, the machine guns, 
the concrete blockhouses, the concentration camps, 
all the features that would so soon repeat 
with ruthless exponential brutality, 
a new twentieth-century reality. 

But this time in Europe. 

Britain "won" the First World War 
at least until Hitler came along; 
then they had to fight the Second Half 
of the extended German War as well, 
for which I confess, one can do no less 
than admire them. They stood up 
when the rest of the world stood down. 
Including America. 

So that was the final end, 
in victory, mind you, of the farflung British Empire. 
The eccentric awkward island remains 
free and independent to this day. 
After a certain delay 
most of the red and the pink bits on the map 
have faded and gone away. 
But who can say 
that this is a bad thing? 

Is there a lesson for our American cousins? 
Damn right, there is. It's very late at night, 
but what do you think I'm writing for? 
Regard this poem as a metaphor. 
I know you don't like us to call you "Yanks"; 
No, thanks! And I don't want to seem to attack 
Amerkuh (you can be so-o-o sensitive!!). So Iraq 
and the Idiot and his Cronies on this occasion 
will be airbrushed out of the equation. 
A poet can talk and he sometimes sings. 
This time I'm not singing but talking. 
I think, on the whole, you should be walking 
Home. Leave it. You sure as hell don't need it. 
The British found out the hard way 
that tyranny, which is what Empire is, 
does not befit a free people at home. 

It hurts the people at home 
just as much as the "natives" overseas. 
Much more, in some ways. 

You have your own history of defiance, 
real enough at the time, now Disneyfied 
and unfortunately ill-remembered, 
turned into mush marshmallow. 
Geo Washington and the cherry tree! 
But a Republic is not an Empire, 
not if the citizens remain vigilant. 
Avoid it like poison. Keep the soldiers home. 
Do not become another Rome.