Military Histories

History writing early on was either military or writing on the monarch to legitimize their reign. The change in which military history is written can be divided into three sections. The first being the old way of writing on military history. These historians only wrote about the battles. They did not focus on the reasons they were fighting but on the formations. A change happened later when historians started to look at the social aspects of war and the technological advances of war and weapons.

The writing on wars changed with the Civil War and the change from looking at soldiers and the formations. The first change was looking at inclusion of those who are not usually talked about in war writing. The first were the black slave soldiers who fought on both sides and how what they were fighting for was different than what the white soldiers were fighting for. The black slave were fighting for their own definition of manhood, “black soldiers not only had to fight to get into the war, they then had to fight to get into the history of the war.” (1073) the stories of race in the army, women in and off the field, and civilian life were starting to emerge as part of the narrative. Another not talked about narrative was the soldiers themselves. Those before the battle, during, and after whether they survived, died, or captured.

Those who wrote for the earlier military history though were already writing further than just the battles that took place. Medieval historians were looking at the technical advances of the time and how those effected the outcomes of battles. Early war historians were also able to write in-depth about the acts of war that happened too. Going in-depth on the memories of war while looking at other sources allowed them to wring fully about the battles from all viewpoints.

Military history today should best be defined as a social history of what brought the war on and how this affected those involved while also looking at the battles themselves. Focusing too much on the battle and campaigns is not bad, but when you forget the people fighting in them and only focus on the movements it makes it harder to understand the war itself.

Military History Old and New

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Journal 6: anaphora

I remember back when

Grandpa used to take us fishing.

He was so full of life.

Our trio sitting in the boat.

Bass basically jumping in

How simple the day had been.

If only the three could be

together again.

Old Reynold is gone.

The third is off in college

and Ryan is just barely

getting into his own.

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Journal 6: I Remember

I remember how you used to like jawbreakers.

I remember how we used to go to McDonald’s

and order fries and sweet tea

as an after school snack.

I remember your eyes and how they sparkled

every time they met mine.

I remember the way you smiled, the way you laughed.

I remember so clearly the way you laughed,

how it infected everyone in the room.

I remember loving you so much that I though my heart

would explode.

I remember wondering how we ended up this way.

I remember thinking we would always be in love

and even after that,

I remember thinking that we would always be friends.

I remember wondering what happened.

I remember wondering where you went.

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302poetry – Global Posts 2017-03-02 12:31:20

Everything is fucked up as usual.

Talk, talk.

Dour faces radiate gloom,

They can see their reflection in the red solo cup.

Wearing loneliness like a bandana,

They perfect naked dances under strobe light.

Shattered expectations mingle with poor grades,

Minds over schooled and under used.

A generation of cheap liquor and missed due dates.

 

Everything is fucked up as usual,

Topics of conversations gone delusional.

Dour faces radiate gloom,

Half filled red solo cups in bloom.

I’m in the kitchen fixing up a remedy,

Lying on the counter dreaming of sobriety.

We perfect naked dances under strobe light,

Our trite ritual sharing our shattered dream-delight.

Minds over schooled and under used,

A stagnant rebellion void of movement brewed.

 

Everything’s fucked up and delusional,

Grades that chain become institutional.

Girl in the black tights,

Wasted somber nights.

Sharing the lonely dark as usual

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Journal 6

Prompt 1:

Rhymed Couplets:

The diner is where we hang out,

hear what the town talks about.

Not food your mother could bake;

french fries, burgers, and a shake.

Poodle skirts are what the girls wear,

cans of hairspray in their hair.

I crave it as soon as I wake –

french fries, burgers, and a shake.

Hand jiving to jukebox music,

in a cadillac we cruise it.

Wearing all leather on my date,

French fries, burgers, and a shake.

Limerick:

French fires, burgers, and a shake,

having lunch by the lake.

A fish jumped out the water

and got all over my daughter,

now she’s so mad she could shake.

Iambic tetrameter:

The place to be on Friday night,

burgers and fries and seeing guys.

I see him there hanging with friends.

He turns and sees me at the door,

gets up and makes his way towards me –

I hope he asks me to the prom!

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Daddy

I want to know why I was never

enough for you. Why you were the man

who was supposed to show me that

I deserved the world, but you showed me

that I needed to grovel for love.

I need you to realize the damage

you caused, to my heart, to my

mind. Now when he asks me to call

him daddy, I ask him to hurt me

in a different way

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Joural 6

Rule: Always start with I and end with an e

 Oh No

 

It was a struggle,

It was utterly irreversible,

I had made a mistake,

I had taken the last one,

Instead of leaving the

Incredibly wonderful mac and cheese

In the fridge all alone

I ate

It.

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Journal 6

The Still Frame House

I remember an adventure began with a full tank of gas,
your mother’s old Subaru and miles of country back roads
that I knew a little and you not at all.
I remember we raced the birds and the clouds
until we found a driveway overgrown
from neglect which belonged to a house falling  in on itself.

I remember holding onto your jacket sleeve like a frightened child
as we crept in through the back door. The floors had rotted, the walls crumbling under the weight of time.
I remember holding my breath because laid out before us In this battered old home was a moment in time captured and preserved: a perfect still of someone’s memory.

I remember there was petrified wonder bread still in the icebox and a cereal box on the counter. All of the kitchen chairs were pulled neatly to the  little wooden table.
I remember there was a stuffed toy bear on the living room floor between a floral print sofa and chair set. Books, papers, and crayon drawings were evidence of of the echo of life.

I remember the floorboard giving out underneath one of my feet,
leaving me with one leg up to my chin like a flamingo, the other buried In the foundation, covered in mud.
I remember your choked laughter as you pulled me up with your left hand while you lit a joint with your right. We stood and passed the spliff between us,  contemplating the scene like TV detectives.

What I remember the most is the photo album. I remember the pictures of the family, the proud and doting parents and their little girl with her stuffed bear. I wonder if you still have those photos, and if you ever remember, too.

 

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Journal 6- Anaphora

I remember the worst pain was scraping my knee on the sidewalk.

I remember my heart feeling like it was in one piece, and

I remember when you used to carry me on your shoulders.

I remember thinking you would live forever.

I remember everything you seem to be forgetting, but

 

I want my knees scraped to hell.

I want the heart I had before it needed patches.

I want to look down on the world from your shoulders,

I want you to be immortal with me.

I want you to store everything at the top of your head.

 

I want what I remember.

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Journal 6

Rules: Each line has the same number of words as its line number (ex. line 1 = 1 word, line 2 = 2 words)

Use an end stop line only on every line divisible by 3.

Dinner in Summer

Hot

coals burn

black, red, orange.

The pungent smell of

seared meat singes the hairs

of my nose; sweet, savory bliss.

The steaks can finally be taken from

the grate of that rusted red grill that

has been in our back yard since my birth.

My father cuts the steaks, juices cover the wooden cutting

board.  My mouth waters like a sprinkler on a hot, dry

Summer day.  He gives me the biggest one and I’m so excited!

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