lest we forget

[electricland]

In Flanders Fields

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 for:
To you from falling 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.

- Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD

Comments

[duir-id.livejournal.com]

I love that poem.

There is a memorial thingy they have at the Royal Albert Hall on the Saturday closest to the 11th, where all the armed services are represented, and the vetrans from WWI WWII and everything else, thou there aren't too many from WWI left anymore. And right at the end of the thingy thousands of red poppies are dropped from the ceiling and it covers everyone there as thou the place was full of blood. All this is done during a minutes silence. It is very moving to say the least

11/11

[wanderingaengus.livejournal.com]

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 - March, 1918

[kendokamel.livejournal.com]

Thank you for posting that

[raithen.livejournal.com]

there is an absolute IDIOT of an English prof at OUC- Penticton Campus actually gave a seminar this week touting the opinion that kids should NOT recite this poem at school, because it uses positve metaphors for war (she cites a sports metaphor in "we throw the torch." Her IMNSHO jejeune poetry analysis (she is herself a poet, rumor has it) and her desire to take on a sacred cow because it gets her media attention offend me and give English profs everywhere a bad name.

[electricland.livejournal.com]

Um, yeah. "We are the Dead, kids! It's great! Come on out! Fun for the whole family!"

Somebody needs a beating... real bad.

[bryghtboy.livejournal.com]

The whole system of only granting a Phd to someone who can find something new to say drives a whole lotta people to say a whole lotta really dumb shit... that's pretty much the only explaination/defence I can think of.

Well that and most of the people who get through it were either crazy to start with or were driven a little nuts by the process.

Re: Somebody needs a beating... real bad.

[raithen.livejournal.com]

indeed. she doesn't have a PhD (I looked up her credentials), but maybe she is working on one.

As for the not finishing sane factor -- indeed. This is why I am not finishing :D.