No, I'll have to content myself with saying this poem sucks and I hate it.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
It's almost as bad as Kipling's pull-yourself-up-by-your-white-colonial-bootstraps "If," but this has got the masturbatory onanist stench of somebody sniffing their own farts and bottling it up to save for date night cologne.
It really has everything I despise: chest-beating, bold inspirational declarations that would sound right at home in a Mel Gibson historical epic, capitalizing common nouns like Pit and Horror as if we're in an EC comic, not to mention all the terrible situations that have made greedy, eager use of this, from graduations to commencements to awards acceptance.
I'll admit I have yet to see the Morgan Freeman/Matt Damon film of the same name (which doesn't look half-bad from the trailer) but I'm not surprised it's a sports movie.
Invictus
William Ernest Henley
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
It's almost as bad as Kipling's pull-yourself-up-by-your-white-colonial-bootstraps "If," but this has got the masturbatory onanist stench of somebody sniffing their own farts and bottling it up to save for date night cologne.
It really has everything I despise: chest-beating, bold inspirational declarations that would sound right at home in a Mel Gibson historical epic, capitalizing common nouns like Pit and Horror as if we're in an EC comic, not to mention all the terrible situations that have made greedy, eager use of this, from graduations to commencements to awards acceptance.
I'll admit I have yet to see the Morgan Freeman/Matt Damon film of the same name (which doesn't look half-bad from the trailer) but I'm not surprised it's a sports movie.
There's just something about this poem that makes people want to head-butt something, head to the pub with your mates, drink a pint or nine of lager and mutter how you're the captain of your soul on the ocean of life.
Part of my problem with this is the metaphor blows: so you're the commander of some leaky vessel heading out on the open ocean like the Deadliest Catch guys, big deal. You're not Poseidon controlling the ocean waves and laughing at the other gods, so cut it out with the back-slapping and speechifying. The guys who do the really dangerous work don't usually brag about it in iambic tetrameter: they have the humility to see our smallness in the face of the larger forces that surround us.
So throw yourself a parade, Mr. Henley. It is quite sad that you had medical problems with your legs and feet throughout your life, but quite simply, there's no excuse for this. You be all unconquered and invictusy, but don't expect me to lift you on my shoulders and carry you in triumph off the pitch.
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