Heroism

Einhard

Hi all,
Anyone have suggestions for short stories or poems that have heroism as the main theme? I'm doing it for a class of teenage girls, and I'm stumped for texts! Thanks.

Denerick

I've always thought that Frost's 'The Road Not Taken' portrays a type of heroism: (If not, at least you'd be able to get a debate out of it, which is surely best teaching practise )

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Morlar

some brief suggestions :

Padraig Pearse

The Rebel

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow;
Who have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
and though gentle, have served churls.
The hands that have touched mine,
the dear hands whose touch Is familiar to me
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people’s masters,
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill.
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire;
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed and cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors.
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel.
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision:
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people’s name to
The masters of my people:
I say to my people that they are holy,
That they are august despite their chains.
That they are greater than those that hold them
And stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people’s masters: Beware
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life,
And than men’s desire to be free?
We will try it out with you ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed.
Tyrants… hypocrites… liars!


Wilfred Owens

"Dulce et Decorum Est "

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

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.

jensennhook

Sands of Time

by

Matt Gentry



A searing heat. Blackness!

His suit was no match for the extreme pressure, and he could feel his body being tested to its limits then, as the ship arced high in the sky, he felt himself break. His mind was enveloped by a darkness, and he fought at it, ultimately losing.

He was sucked back into consciousness by piercing alarms. Warning lights flashed their brilliance before him, he glanced to the left and saw his friend, and fellow traveler, pass out. The ground was rushing up before him at an incredible rate, the shuttle was now like a runaway missile, targeting some unknown enemy. He tried to save them; tried to prevent a horrid finish, but in the end his attempts proved futile. The earth erupted and the darkness once again entered his thoughts. This time he welcomed it, giving in to the night.

His senses were shocked into reality, his nostrils awakening to the smell of breakfast. Bacon! His eyes remained shut, not wanting the sleep to be over. He could hear his mother calling up to him.

"Vincent honey. Wake up! Vincent. Vincent."

The voice became distorted and took on a whole new sound.

"Vincent. Yo, Vinny! Wake up man!"

He sat up and shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind. This action brought a wave of pain upon himself. His partner was standing over him, checking the battered man for damage. Vincent gingerly touched his head, wary of the dull pain slowly developing. "What happened?"

"Guidance systems failed. We could be anywhere. It's got to be a planet similar to Earth, anyway. I mean, we can breath here, and all."

Vincent stood up and surveyed his surroundings: the whole place was a desert as far as he could tell. Sand filled his vision with every turn. His clock read 9:21 and already the sun was burning high overhead. He tore off his suit and launched it across the hot sand, then grabbed a pack and began filling it with supplies: most of them had been strewn about in the crash and were worthless. Salvaging a small portion, he hefted the bag on his back.

The other man, a cocky young pilot named Mark, cried out. "What do you thing you're doing?"

"Look, there's enough food and water for about 36 hours. I don't intend to just sit here and wait for death to come knocking. Now you can either come with me, or hope for some small miracle and stay with the ship. Me, I'd rather take my chances out there, among the sand."

Vincent could sense the hesitation in Mark's eyes, but was relieved when he grabbed a pack and stocked it.

"Let's do it!"

The two set out with no direction and no real way, they just prayed for some sort of guidance, something to show them the path. The intense sun beat down upon them and Vincent could feel the sweat roll down his back. The tiny canteen of water did nothing to quench his thirst: only helped to dry his already parched lips. They had only traveled a few short miles and Mark was beginning to show signs of weakening. The two compatriots peaked a dune, its contents filling their boots and mouths. Vincent looked back, as Mark lost his footing and stumbled. He slammed hard into the ground and his breaths became labored. Vincent rushed over and look down on the fallen man. Blood trickled from Mark's mouth and all signs of life ceased. Vincent turned away, terrified that he might be next.

Day turned to night and the sand cooled, barely. Vincent kept moving, wanting to put as much distance between himself and his fate as possible. The sun returned once more, its power slowly affecting him. Images of water appeared and he ran, only to be greeted by more of the scorching sand. His vision blurred and he fell to his knees then collapsed and his face slammed hard down onto the earth.

A noise!

He forced his weary eyes open and saw a strange creature before him. It spoke and turned, hopping up a small hill. The vulture spread its wings and took flight over the enormous town, finally coming to rest on a sign which read:

"Welcome to Las Vegas"



THE END

Emiko

Heroism by Ralph Waldo Emerson seems an obvious one. I've no idea what it's about, though.


Ruby wine is drunk by knaves,
Sugar spends to fatten slaves,
Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons;
Thunder-clouds are Jove's festoons,
Drooping oft in wreaths of dread,
Lightning-knotted round his head;
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head-winds right for royal sails.

Einhard

Thanks for the suggestions. Some good ideas there for older classes, but I think they might be a tad too advanced for my 12 year olds!!:P

Plowman

This post has been deleted.

PScholes

Some really nice books to read ... (:
I hope you have that much of time if you have not read them before ?
schaumburg gyms

Eliot Rosewater

Antarctica by Derek Mahon is a straightforward enough portrayal of heroism I suppose. It's about Lawrence Oates.


‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’
The others nod, pretending not to know.
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He leaves them reading and begins to climb,
goading his ghost into the howling snow;
He is just going outside and may be some time.

The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime
And frostbite is replaced by vertigo:
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Need we consider it some sort of crime,
This numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No,
He is just going outside and may be some time –

In fact, for ever. Solitary enzyme,
Though the night yield no glimmer there will glow,
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

He takes leave of the earthly pantomime
Quietly, knowing it is time to go:
‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’
At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.

Denerick

love that poem.

goose2005

I can be your hero baby
I can kiss away the pain, oh yeah...

But seriously, "the Champ" is a good story.

Hayte

Maybe it would help if you could explain what it is that you want to teach and how you want to get there?

Heroism as a theme is all well and good but what do you want to say about it?