In Flanders Fields

John McCrae | December 1915 | John McCrae

[Clive]

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae

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.

[Clive]

Thank you for the poem, I have saved it.

[Clive]

Thank you.

[Tennessee_Bob]

I have always liked "Dulce Et," because of the dark images that it paints of war, rather than the glories of it. R.E. Lee said "It is good that war is so terrible, else we would grow to fond of if."

The line, "An ecstasy of fumbling," really hit home with me the first time I ever went through a chemical attack warning...I remember thinking of those lines as I struggled to get my mask and hood on...and how for the first time ever, a poem actually spoke to me. Fortunately, I didn't have to encounter the rest of the hell that Wilfred Owen described, and I count my blessings there.

Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks for posting it.

Bob
USAF, 1984-1994

[ofMagog]

Carl Sandburg wrote of those who did not know:

BUTTONS
I have been watching the war map slammed up for
advertising in front of the newspaper office.
Buttons--red and yellow buttons--blue and black buttons--
are shoved back and forth across the map.
A laughing young man, sunny with freckles,
Climbs a ladder, yells a joke to somebody in the crowd,
And then fixes a yellow button one inch west
And follows the yellow button with a black button one inch west.
(Ten thousand men and boys twist on their bodies in a red soak along a river edge,
Gasping of wounds, calling for water, some rattling death in their throats.)
Who would guess what it cost to move two buttons one
inch on the war map here in front of the newspaper
office where the freckle-faced young man is laughing to us?
-- Carl Sandburg

[prognostigaator]

Another poem,[ this one set to music ] was written by Joyce Kilmer, a WWI vet, I believe.

Only recall the first line...

"I think that I shall never see, ..... ....

"Trees"

[Gimlet]

Ah! Yes...the old lie---Dulce et decorum est From the ode by Horace - It is a sweet and proper thing to give up one's life for one's county...Not. How different that poem is from Rubert Brooke's sentimental poem above. What a difference a few years of war make! When they wrote Owen had seen battle, had spent months in the miserable trenches; Brooke had not. I think too of Sassoon's bitter poems about armchair warriors, of incompetent staff officers, and the pathetic ignorance of those at home wrapped in their cosy notions of heroism.

[Gimlet]

The Hero 'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quivered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
> Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
> For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
>
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

Siegfried Sassoon, 1917
>
Where are our poppies?

[ofMagog]

Bump
In memory of Chief Negotiator.

[headsonpikes]

In Remembrance.

[in the Arena]

If you are able,
save them a place
inside of you
and save one backward glance
when you are leaving
for the places they can
no longer go.
Be not ashamed to say
you loved them,
though you may
or may not have always.
Take what they have left
and what they have taught you
with their dying
and keep it with your own.
And in that time
when men decide and feel safe
to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace
those gentle heroes
you left behind.

Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam

KIA
24 March 1970
Cambodia

Bio - O'DONNELL, MICHAEL DAVIS

[Migraine]

I don't mind admitting that I cried silently as I read the poems posted along with yours. In the mid-60s, I wanted to be a soldier, the best that I could be. I was good, and my buddies and superiors knew it. But, one day in July, 1967, laying down a treacherous field of coordinated fire, me on an M-60, I began to struggle for breath. I was whisked away to the base hospital and diagnosed with asthma. Two weeks later, I was out of OCS, the Army, Jump School, Ranger School -- all of it; all plans, goals and dreams put on hold, back to the drawing board of my life. Many of my buddies never came back from Vietnam; and I was just now holding my manhood cheap while reading Shakespeare's Henry speech once again.

But in carrying that torch by living in their stead, I reclaim some solace and my joie de vivre, which is how they would have wanted it. And live I will; but not without pausing to honor them, the dead, as so many good patriots here on FR are wont to do. God bless.

[prognostigaator]

Good for you.. few people out there would volunteer as you did...

[Churchillspirit]

Thanks for a very nostalgic post, Clive.

Many years ago, in England, I used to stand on the street in my home town on the Saturday before Remembrance Sunday with my tray of poppies. Of course, no-one ever took one without making a contribution. Except one drunk who wanted his money back!

Do they still make the wax poppies for cars?

[BellStar]

Please Go Here to Write To Military Personnel
Site lets you know how you can send letters of
encouragement to be published in the Stars & Stripes?

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Or find a pen pal and add your name to the signatures of love for America.

[ofMagog]

Thank you.

[genefromjersey]

The sun-how it shines
On the green fields of France
The warm winds blow gently
And the red poppies dance;
But here in the graveyard
It's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses
In mute witness stand
To Man's blind indifference
To his fellow Man;
To a whole generation
That was butchered and damned.
Did they beat the drums slowly
Did they play the pipes lowly,
Did the rifles fire o'er ye
As they lowered ye down ?
Did the band play "The Last Waltz" and chorus;
Did the pipes play " The Flower of the For-or-or-est?

[BellStar]

Bump to the TOP!

[tonycavanagh]

Thanks Clive I would of posted yesterday but I spend most weekends training up recruits or desk work.

Tony

[Fiddlstix]

BTTT

[Criminal Number 18F]

Clive, thanks for the bump, and Irma, for the poem. I am a fan of Great War poetry and didn't know that one. Do you know that Dr. McRae was one of the many victims of the flu epidemic, which took the young and healthy? (Scientists think that the over-40 had immunity, and their children had been born with resistance... but the 20- to 40-year olds, the soldiers, were critically exposed. Sad).

On Veteran's Day (as we call it in the USA) or Remembrance Day (its Commonwealth name) I was in hospital, visiting a friend and former teammate who is recovering from a head wound. (Training accident).

The day before, I was at a funeral for another former teammate, a Fire Marshal (basically, fire department cop who investigates arson, and so forth) in FDNY who fell on 9/11. I suppose the lesson is, stay off my team.

Wars continue. But we have "taken up their quarrel with the foe." The fallen shall be avenged, count on it.

d.o.l.

Criminal Number 18F