In Response...-By Christopher Warren

I truly enjoyed Margaret Atwood’s poem “Happy Endings” as it gave good consequence to the true realities of life. I would like to commemorate her excellently forged lines by explicitly responding to her work. I found that her format alone was enough to truly bring her imagined images into the reader’s mind. It was creative of her to always relate back to letter A. Letter A was the perceived “Happy Ending” that is commonly associated where two people spend the rest of their lives in peace and retirement. However in the below fragmented stanzas of her peace she satirically criticized the reality of life and endings. She interestingly enough seems to have conclusively proven the fact that despite whom you are that bad things can happen in alternate realities. That of course would be the obvious interpretation of her work, yet if one truly criticizes her lines and reads there coded message carefully then one can discover the critical similarity of a united death. In other words, she is humbly pointing out in a discreet manner the interesting realization that in a happy ending someone has to win and someone has to lose. Furthermore the realization is that no matter what one does in one’s life that the ultimate defeat is that everyone dies. Quite simply.

In Reflection...

Dwarves

The wind is a colored face amongst the faceless faces
Who sees not the Gust he has portrayed by the look of peoples laces
Unlike these minion dwarves the wind keeps blowing long
Some believe napalm him like our fellow Vietcong

For thou is the way the book has been read for many a year
To us a minion dwarf he is just another of our nearest fear
Where has the white rose been picked on top of that far hill
Until we find the secret whose shoes will it fill?

The wind sits on top of us waiting for the smoke to clear
The rain does what it can to stop this maddening cheer
The white rose has been lost over the hill it goes
Minion dwarves on trial pleading this it is not what I chose

At last it comes to the end when all is said and done
The question is will you stand up and let them have all the fun

In Reflection...
Good Evening,
When I first heard this poem and began to interpret its lingual code, I pondered briefly upon the title of Dwarves. At first I was startled by the author’s choice, However as I read on I found a deeper meaning of oppression and injustice. From what I could see it appeared that the Dwarves were at first ordinary people that would receive the same gust of wind as everyone else, in other words they were equal. However, it was when I had read: “For thou is the way the book has been read for many a year” I began to ponder the possibility of oppression or civil unrest that eventually brought on this poem. In the next lines we learn of an incident of a stolen flower that innocently brings on the question that “Until we find the secret whose shoes will it fill?” There is a clear search for the perpetrator and as the dust settles the crowds rebel in vengeance and demand trial. These Dwarves are held on trial against an unchanged judge. The unfortunate truth of the matter is that such an event has re-occurred throughout history. One being the French Revolution, during this revolt the French people revolted against their king in a mad rush after a seemingly innocent event. They demanded justice and the trial of the royal family and many other nobles.

Excellent job on your poem, I believe that you have collectively grasped an excellent depth of words. I truly enjoyed the way that you formatted and wrote this poem and its possible relation to by above comment.

In the Dead of Winter...-By Christopher Warren

As I lay in bed that cold winter’s night;
I look out my window and see the snow;
I dream of the sun’s majestic bright light;
But who weaved this storm, Not I, I can’t sew;

As I sit there alone, out comes my book;
I dream, summer’s past and the busy air;
I defy my great grief to take a look;
Now the skyline covered, layer upon layer;

I began to sum, I would go outside;
As I opened the door I saw but white;
I was shocked the Weatherman, he had lied;
I stood there watching, never such a sight.

I walked to the lake and to my surprise;
The banks were warmed by a blanket of snow;
It was unfrozen, my mother, all lies;
As I stood there in thought I heard, wind blow;



I walked about, heard the crunch of snow;
And saw the sorry state of the mighty trees;
Suddenly the sight of geese, fly south, GO!
I ne’er realized how I miss the bees;

Few tracks pollute the crispy, new white pack;
White caps of ice float, an uncharted course;
The heavy breeze picks up the natural slack.
Devastating ice, at the mercy of an unchanging source;

As I lay there alone I fell to ground;
The calming breeze made quiet the great noise;
And pondered the way my thoughts were unbound;
T’was as if I had forgotten all sense of poise;

What more can I say of that wonderful bitter;
Oh day of days in the dead of winter;

A day to remember...- By: Christopher Warren

When I was a boy some days ago;
I tended the fields and played with glee;
I lived on a farm on ground so low;
I heard the people shout, Nazis, flee!

We hurriedly packed and made our way;
We rushed down the road on our old cart.
I heard the shouts as the line gave way;
And still the shells blew brave men apart;

I still remember that horrid day;
We took the road throughout day and night;
When good men died, tyranny at bay;
Scores of others follow and took flight;

We finally saw the coast and ships;
The St. Louis her name, ne’er forget;
They rationed us food and water, sipped;
I heard the people, the new life bet;

After a week at sea, a storm found;
We arrived in Cuba and sought land;
To our surprise, we thought ourselves bound;
Though gunboat secure, some dared reach sand;

We then sailed north, gunboat e’er present;
But King refused, tried to justify;
I thought, because I am a peasant;
We pleaded to his immoral lie;

I stand today to say with passion;
There is no land of free, only ration;

The Long Voyage By: Christopher Warren

When I was young, some days ago;

I dreamt about the days so long;

I saw the mighty ships so go;

I wished to join the awaited song;

But alas I stained too young;

A King’s commission I would need;

So waited I did for mine lung;

If a voyage I dreamt to lead;

For within my dreams I proclaim;

I felt the pride, Armada lead;

The Devil’s demons to be slain;

That they would follow, e’er I tread;

Some months later I soon would find;

From the safe deck of ship with glee;

With new land and people so kind;

We raised a cross upon our lee;

We settled there upon the shore:

The people helped, lest we splinter;

And tended our farms with great bore;

With knowledge we survived winter;

We traded beads for precious fur;

Established we did a trade post;

And paid a treated royal Sir;

But we pushed back to the Coast;

Acadia its name, we made;

While graves were made for the lost men;

Our muskets and arms forced are laid.

We sat on the bench the throne, Britain;

We still fought on through the great years;

Lest we forget how French we are;

And supported the greatest beers;

We fought the war and stopped, the bar;

So here I stand today to say;

That we need to keep the British at bay;

Spirit of Canada By: Christopher Warren

What is Canada?
Is it simply the great diverse mass of composted rock from the very core;
Or is it the people that spring to life to tend their farms with bore?;
Nay, it is the stark spirit of this sovereign nation;
That brings simple adoration to our quest for Confederation;

Like the Spirit of St. Louis of the American Amelia Earhart;
Pondering upon our own great Canadian Brave Heart;
What is it you say of this nation so young?;
It is the triumphant choirs of immigrants so sung;
Not only are these who migrate and glee;
But those who first came and are written throughout history;

Just like the coureurs and their native befriends;
Of whom Cartier led, established and then lends;
The bases of Louisburg with their churches and trends;
Sparkle with tradition of their own weathered homelands;
These carols are still sung by musical bands;
Lest we forget who truly owns these lands;

But today with think of our own demise;
Lest we forget those soldiers who gave their lives;
Their lives led them against the thought of s hesitate;
But worried they still were if they were to go to bed late;

Not only are those who did these great deeds;
But those who gave their lives to deceit;
Those whom I speak of I am sure that you know;
Are the politicians that can turn white as snow;

They fought for our independence through thick and thin;
And opened the door for our own civil chapter to begin;
Yet still there are those just like Lester B Pearson;
Who thought without hesitation and spoke with great reason;
We honour them today and the great Nobel Peace Prize;

So what more can I say of our timeless tale;
But that today our land is still for sale;

Mon Canot (French)

Assis sur mon canot d'écorce
Assis à la fraiche du temps
Oui, je brave tous les rapides
Je ne crains pas les bouillons blancs!
Oui, je brave tous les rapides
Je ne crains pas les bouillons blancs!

Je prends mon canot, je le lance
À travers les rapid's, des bouillons blancs
Et là, à grands sauts, il advance.
Je ne crains mêm' pas l'océan.
Et là, à grands sauts, il advance.
Je ne crains mêm' pas l'océan.

Mon canot est fait d'écorce fine
Que l'on pleume sur les bouleaux blancs.
Les côt's ell's sont fait's de racine
Et les avirons de bois blancs.
Les côt's ell's sont fait's de racine
Et les avirons de bois blancs.

Et quand ça vient pour le portage
Je prends mon canot sur mon dos;
Et là, je l'verse sur la plage
C'est ma cabane pour le nuit.
Et là, je l'verse sur la plage
C'est ma cabane pour le nuit.

J'ai traversé les flancs des côtes,
Aussi le grand fleuve St-Laurent.
J'ai connu les tribus sauvages
Et leurs langages différents.
J'ai connu les tribus sauvages
Et leurs langages différents.

Un labourer aim' sa charrue,
Un chasseur, son fusil et son chien
Un musicien aim' sa musique.
Moi, mon canot, c'est tout mon bien.
Un musicien aim' sa musique.
Moi, mon canot, c'est tout mon bien.

MacDonnel on the Heights-Stan Rogers

Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay.
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way,
And perhaps had you not fallen,
You might be what Brock became
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
To say the name, MacDonnell,
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall.
Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.
At Queenston now, the General on his tower stands alone
And there's lichen on 'MacDonnell' carved upon that weathered stone
In a corner of the monument to glory you could claim,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.

Brave Wolfe-Traditional Song

Come all ye young men all let this delight you
Come all ye young men all let nothing fright you
Never let your courage fail when you're brought to trial
Nor let your fancy move at the first denial

This brave undaunted youth have crossed the ocean
To free America was his intention
He landed at Quebec with all his party
The city to attack being brave and hearty

Bold Wolfe drew up his men in a line so pretty
On the Plains of Abraham before the city
The French came marching down in hopes to meet them
With a double number round resolved to beat him

Montcalm and this brave youth together walked
Between two armies they like brothers talked
Till each one to his post then did retire
Twas then those numerous hosts commenced their fire

The drums did loudly beat and the colours flying
The purple dawn did stream and men lay dying
And shot from off his horse fell that brave hero
We'll long lament his loss in tears of sorrow

He lifted up his head when the guns did rattle
And to his army said, How goes the battle?
Quebec is all our own none can prevent it
Oh then, replies bold Wolfe, I die contented

Pilgrims

Dr. John McCrae (1872-1918)

The Pilgrims

1An uphill path, sun-gleams between the showers,

2 Where every beam that broke the leaden sky

3Lit other hills with fairer ways than ours;

4 Some clustered graves where half our memories lie;

5And one grim Shadow creeping ever nigh:

6 And this was Life.

7Wherein we did another's burden seek,

8 The tired feet we helped upon the road,

9The hand we gave the weary and the weak,

10 The miles we lightened one another's load,

11When, faint to falling, onward yet we strode:

12 This too was Life.

13Till, at the upland, as we turned to go

14 Amid fair meadows, disky in the night,

15The mists fell back upon the road below;

16 Broke on our tired eyes the western light;

17The very graves were for a moment bright:

18 And this was Death.

In Flanders Fields...

Dr. John McCrae (1872-1918)

In Flanders Fields

1In Flanders fields the poppies blow

2Between the crosses, row on row,

3 That mark our place; and in the sky

4 The larks, still bravely singing, fly

5Scarce heard amid the guns below.

6We are the Dead. Short days ago

7We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

8 Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

9 In Flanders fields.

10Take up our quarrel with the foe:

11To you from failing hands we throw

12 The torch; be yours to hold it high.

13 If ye break faith with us who die

14We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

15 In Flanders fields.