K.+James

media type="file" key="Monologue-James Kim.m4a"

1st Poem: The Weight by Linda Gregg

The recording was mostly monotone and did not give much emphasis. The rhythm and consistent accent on the "t" made it understandable.

2nd Poem: How To Uproot A Tree by Jennifer K. Sweeney

The rhythm with the end of each word being unstressed makes it very clear. However, it would be better with more diverse tones on the lines.

3rd Poem: Door in the Mountain by Jean Valentine

The mood of gloominess matches the poem, which makes it very understandable and moving.

My Poems' Theme is Patriotism Of War.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
 * // by: Theodore O'Hara (1820-1867) //**

**The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.**

Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn, nor screaming fife, At dawn shall call to arms.
 * No rumor of the foe's advance

Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumèd heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

'T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their father's gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain And long the pitying sky has wept Above the mouldering slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from war his richest spoil The ashes of her brave. So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan, On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. **

**Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, Dear as the blood ye gave; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleep

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown The story how ye fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. **

**Channel Firing** >> >> >> That night your great guns, unawares, >> Shook all our coffins as we lay, >> And broke the chancel window-squares, >> We thought it was the Judgement-day >> >> And sat upright. While drearisome >> Arose the howl of wakened hounds: >> The mouse let fall the altar-crumb, >> The worm drew back into the mounds, >> >> The glebe cow drooled. Till God cried, "No; >> It's gunnery practice out at sea >> Just as before you went below; >> The world is as it used to be: >> >> "All nations striving strong to make >> Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters >> They do no more for Christés sake >> Than you who are helpless in such matters. >> >> "That this is not the judgment-hour >> For some of them's a blessed thing, >> For if it were they'd have to scour >> Hell's floor for so much threatening. . . . >> >> "Ha, ha. It will be warmer when >> I blow the trumpet (if indeed >> I ever do; for you are men, >> And rest eternal sorely need)." >> >> So down we lay again. "I wonder, >> Will the world ever saner be," >> Said one, "than when He sent us under >> In our indifferent century!" >> >> And many a skeleton shook his head. >> "Instead of preaching forty year," >> My neighbour Parson Thirdly said, >> "I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer." >> >> Again the guns disturbed the hour, >> Roaring their readiness to avenge, >> As far inland as Stourton Tower, >> And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.**
 * **Thomas Hardy