The DOMINIC LAGAN Gallery @BrendanWorld™
  • Accueil
  • About
  • BrendanWorld
  • BrendanWorld Manifesto
  • Exhibitions
  • 'Pop Goes the Salon' 2026 Exhibition Catalogue
  • Pop Goes the Salon captions
  • VVIP T Shirts & mugs
  • Installations and other works (click on the photo)
  • Collection
  • Blogs
  • FAQs
  • Exhibition artists
  • Art Library Selection
  • Books
  • Poetry Juke Box
  • Videos
  • The Medium Sized Man Speaks
  • Interview tapes from Images of Power (copyright Brendan  Bruce 2026)
  • First House Album 1986-1999
  • Second House Album
  • Third House Album
  • Legal notice
  • Contact
  • The thoughts of Chairman B
  • Photography books
  • 'Guess that Tune!'
     
    The DOMINIC LAGAN Gallery @BrendanWorld™
      • Accueil
      • About
      • BrendanWorld
      • BrendanWorld Manifesto
      • Exhibitions
      • 'Pop Goes the Salon' 2026 Exhibition Catalogue
      • Pop Goes the Salon captions
      • VVIP T Shirts & mugs
      • Installations and other works (click on the photo)
      • Collection
      • Blogs
      • FAQs
      • Exhibition artists
      • Art Library Selection
      • Books
      • Poetry Juke Box
      • Videos
      • The Medium Sized Man Speaks
      • Interview tapes from Images of Power (copyright Brendan  Bruce 2026)
      • First House Album 1986-1999
      • Second House Album
      • Third House Album
      • Legal notice
      • Contact
      • The thoughts of Chairman B
      • Photography books
      • 'Guess that Tune!'

      THE MEDIUM SIZED MAN - Interview Part 5 The Tea Chest Escape The poem he quotes from is Anthem for Doomed Youth By Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? — Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,— The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.