We’re looking at the next home in the War Correspondent Balaklava by Ciaran Carson. Another war in a sorry another battle and I believe it’s in the Crimea.
And the description here is so much different than in the first war correspondent home is much more a narrative though it is still rich with description. Let me just focus this for a second. Okay.
The Turks market in dense columns bristling with steel really covered shining. Sunlight flashed on the polished barrels of their four locks and on their bayonets relieving their somber hue, for their dark blue uniforms look quite black when viewed in mass.
So the blue seems black. When they’re all together, it’s just his death freak in light powder blue jackets, with white cartouche belt, Scarlet pantaloons mounted on white Arabs coffee, I like better flowers.
The colors are spectacular, and it does catch the eye.
And it’s compared to flowers, the soldiers. Colors of vivid, Sunday were puppies, and now we’re going to get a list of flowers. poppies, read.
The whitelist anemones while parsley mint, white corn Rue. Now we get herb, sage time, countless other plants whose names I lie. So he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know all the names of what he’s looking at.
He’s trying to give language to what he sees, and what he’s feeling, which is a theme in the pub in poetry generally, as a Turkish and betrayal, their boats creaked and crushed.
So what we see is the army comes in and starts crushing the flowers.
They creaked crushed the spring the flowers that could give something back, but they’re crushed. And when they’re crushed, they give off perfumes, and it drifts into the air.
And it mixes with the sweat of men. And horses smothered with flower. So we get the smell.
We get the smells waving high above the more natural green of the meadow with balances of rank, grass. Rank disgusting maybe.
But what is makes this grass disgusting is this is from where this is grown from where the dead has landed.
They made their last repose there and even the horses.
The horses don’t eat this grass. Because it’s suggested that this grass is if deadly is from the dead literally.
As the force moved on, more evidence of that fateful day came to light we see more of this huge battle where the English was shot and killed.
You can see that in a poem like Charge of the Light Brigade, skeletal scalar horses Scarlet cloth hanging on the bones of arms.
The buttons being cut off the jackets so bones buttons removed as treasured maybe round a shot the bullet skull kicked clean.
All the flesh is taken away except for two bits of red hair. The remains of a Wolfhound sprawled at his feet. from many graves, the uncovered bones of the tenants started up so the graves.
The bones are starting to come up. And all the boots like the buttons had been removed, taken away.
The flesh has been taken all away from the skull only we see some hair tangled with rotted trappings have decayed horses lay where they’d fallen so everything is rotting revealed.
Death, the remains of war. It’s not all flowers.
It’s sometimes this horrific images. Rice and drums stuck up a rat a plan to talk.
So we swept on over our fellow men and arms. So they just walked over the dead.
Under the new sun in our buttoned-up jackets, these guys have their buttons, suggestion in the last line.
They too may die. And they walk over with almost no thought and no care for those dead.
And there’s a haunting suggestion that they might also be tangled with the rotted trappings.
It’s not just the bones but they themselves the soldiers who are now so beautiful, clean, colored, wonderfully dressed like flowers, that they also may turn into the things beneath the flowers.
And in this way war is seen in both war correspondent and in history.
We see the war it isn’t just about being killed directly in combat. But it’s the larger influence and aspect of war to change and affect people specifically soldiers in war correspondent.
But in history, it’s more about how it can affect normal people, families, and nature.