Her Honors English 9 teacher made the decision that she would compete in the 'Verse' category. No one told her that she basically had to memorize the entire poem, or three. If this had been the case, she never would have tried to tackle 'The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock' the first time around. There were a couple of other poems too, but they've long since been forgotten.
The girl practiced and practiced her poems. She thought that she was passable. She really had no delusions of being good at what she did. She just didn't want to completely suck. After that first meet, she knew that there were a couple who were worse than she was. There was a girl, however, who was spectacular. Her name has long since been forgotten, but not her performance. If her high school picture were produced, she would be immediately recognized. She always wore a plaid wool skirt ( Speech Team season runs during the cold months) a pretty white/cream coloured blouse and lacy Sunday church knee socks.
The poem that I remember her doing was Stephen Crane's 'Do Not Weep, Maiden, For War is Kind.' She was amazing. (She also did Dylan Thomas's 'Do Not Go Gentle In To That Good Night.') She won more competitions than I can remember. She was so freaking believable. She ripped your heart out every time. She deserved to win. And she did.
Below is the poem, which I believe is out of copyright. I found a copy on Project Guttenberg, so it should be okay to post a copy here. Also, included is a picture of my lacy Sunday church socks. They aren't quite knee socks, but they do go well with my lug-soled black Mary-Janes.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
And the shy girl bailed out of 'Verse' the next year and moved on to 'SOS- Special Occasion Speaking.' She wasn't a whole lot better, but atleast she only had to remember what she wrote as opposed to remembering what someone else had written.
