Technically it’s Saturday, but the day is so appropriate for this one. Sunday Sonnets 1 is on hold; sorry, but I’m not happy with what I’ve written. I’ll work on it over time.
In Flanders Fields
Lt. Colonel John Alexander McCrae, M.D.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.
The multitalented John McCrae was a Canadian poet, artist, author, physician, professor, surgeon, and soldier who served in the Canadian Army during the Boer War and World War I.
After interning at Johns Hopkins, and being offered a fellowship at McGill, he interrupted his medical work to serve in the Boer War in 1899. Though he said little, his African war experiences had clearly left him with complex feelings about war. While he still believed in the necessity of fighting to right wrongs, he was appalled at the brutality and suffering of soldiers, especially wounded soldiers. He resigned his commission as Major in 1904.
He published papers, continued to write poetry, traveled, drew, taught, and, of course, wound up serving again, as a field surgeon in World War I, serving on the Western front.
Over a horrific period in spring 1915, the Germans started using chemical weapons against Canadian troops. Casualties were terribly high, and McCrae insisted on living and working right at the front.to treat the wounded as rapidly as he could. He wrote his mother:
The general impression in my mind is of a nightmare. We have been in the most bitter of fights. For seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds ….. And behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way.
On May the second, a student he’d mentored died: Lt. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa. There was not much left to bury; he was killed by an artillery shell. What there was, was gathered in a bag, fastened with safety pins. With no chaplain, and safety forbidding light, McCrae officiated at a brief funeral service, doing his Presbyterian best to remember the Anglican order of service, and Helmer was buried along with the rest.
On the evening of May the third, McCrae spent 20 minutes and wrote this poem.
Lt. Col. Edward Morrison, the CO at the scene described it (I thank Rob Ruggenberg for much of this content):
“This poem was literally born of fire and blood during the hottest phase of the second battle of Ypres. My headquarters were in a trench on the top of the bank of the Ypres Canal, and John had his dressing station in a hole dug in the foot of the bank. During periods in the battle men who were shot actually rolled down the bank into his dressing station.
Along from us a few hundred yards was the headquarters of a regiment, and many times during the sixteen days of battle, he and I watched them burying their dead whenever there was a lull. Thus the crosses, row on row, grew into a good-sized cemetery.
Just as he describes, we often heard in the mornings the larks singing high in the air, between the crash of the shell and the reports of the guns in the battery just beside us.
I have a letter from him in which he mentions having written the poem to pass away the time between the arrival of batches of wounded, and partly as an experiment with several varieties of poetic metre.”
The poem itself is a rondeau; a French form of poetry with a fixed, stylized form: 3 stanzas: a quintet, a quatrain, and a sextet. (Fancy words meaning 5 lines of poetry, 4 lines, 6 lines). The rhyming scheme is of the form A(R) A B B R, A A B R, and A A B B A R, where A represents one 8 syllable phrase ending in a particular rhyme, and B represents a different 8 syllable phrase ending in a different rhyme. The refrain, R, is typically based upon the opening line of the poem, but this need not be. It typically is also only 4 syllables, but some practitioners of the form differ.
The constrictions of the form are intended as a challenge to the poet to express himself/herself succinctly and poignantly. You can judge for yourself the degree to which he succeeded.
The third verse was often used by jingoistic governments to stir up patriotic fervor in support of that war, and future wars. Personally, I believe there is such a thing as just war, and that sometimes sacrifices — terrible sacrifices — must be made. But to simply quote that third verse in an ad for Victory Bonds, or in support of future wars without being very aware of the Hell on earth that McCrae and others endured would be a terrible act.
On November 11, we remember those who served, those who sacrificed, and those who have gone on before us.
With thanks to Rob Ruggenberg’s fine page on In Flanders Fields, Wikipedia, and Veterans Affairs Canada.
An excellent poem truly.
- Oldone
While I am disappointed at this break in the Zen motorcycle story, that is the best poem so far. The historical background was also very interesting, thanks for providing it.
Wow.
You’re welcome. I appreciate the comments, for without them, I’d not have known whether or not it was worth posting.
So even posting just “wow” is very, very, very helpful.
Coming up will be some 18th and 20th century British poets, and some (mostly) 19thC Irish poets. If you guys have good suggestions for an Australian poet (Female and Gwallam), I’d enjoy suggestions.
Best,
-wolfe
@Female: You said your Dad has never said much about his wartime experiences; my Dad never did, either, until the current Iraqi conflict came to the fore. I don’t remember him talking about war during Vietnam (though I was very small), but perhaps because he now has four grandsons, he has been more vocal.
I’d have to ask specifically where he served, and I certainly should. I remember stories he told that were gentle, and funny, when I was small. Now, however, he gets misty and becomes very agitated at anything he perceives to be glorifying war. He’s never been a big supporter of the local VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) post, either.
Even though it was 60+ years ago, I don’t think anyone can remain unaffected by having men (boys, really) die in their arms. Several of his brothers (he had 6) served, too, and all came home safe, though not all sound.
He did have a great story about some fellow servicemen who thought it would be great fun to catch and tie up a kangaroo as a pet. It was fun, too, until she went into heat and the boys came calling. Dad just laughed, because as a farm boy, he knew better.
Hi Z, not my dad, but my pop (my mum’s dad). I never even knew he served until about 10 years ago (a year after he died) when my nan told me. All I know about it, I have heard from his wife (my nan) and all she has ever said is that he didn’t get to meet his children (my mum and her twin brother) until they were almost four years old!
I’ve also heard countless stories about how terrible the rations were in those days. And how my naughty aunt threw the weekly supply of butter out of her pram one day and they didn’t have anymore for quite a while. I always laugh at that one.
It would be interesting to find out where your dad served unless you think asking may upset him. I do think it is a good idea to pass on the family history, especially for your sons.
re: the kangaroo. Karma. Kangaroos bounding towards you at a very fast rate are frightening. I can just see those men scattering in all directions, ha!
OK wolfe.
I’ll get some stuff together for you over the rest of the week. What’s you hotmail addy again?
Here’s a teaser
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars
and from the same poem(bear in mind it was written in 1889)
And the hurrying people daunt me and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste
Clancy of the Overflow, A. B. (Banjo) Patterson
@Female: I should have known it wouldn’t be your Dad who served; my father is old enough to be my grandfather!
As for rations, two things come to mind. When my Dad was in Australia, he hung out with another guy from South Dakota. This man, however, was a full-blooded native American and taciturn in the extreme. Not a problem for my Dad - he respects people’s privacy. At any rate, this guy used to go out and shoot fresh game, bringing it back to share with my Dad, already skinned and dressed out. The one time Dad asked what sort of meat it was, he stare at him for several long seconds, then replied, “Chicken.” Dad never asked again.
The other stories I’ve heard were from the British nanny who cared for my boys before they went to school. She was in Gloucestershire during WWII and to this day she has awful fears of having anything put over her nose & mouth, because of having to put on gas masks. Sixty years hence, she still loves SPAM, because it was the only meat her family had for weeks on end.
She’s made a SPAM convert of my older son (I think it’s gross), and she ended up later marrying an American GI, for which I am eternally grateful, since it brought her into my life.
~Z~
I’d rather Abschicken than Spam. Boom Boom, I’m here all week, don’t forget to try the buffet!
I can’t possibly muster up enough brain power today to spend much time on that plane… but I will say, “wow.”
@gwallan: wolfeblog is the username, hotmail dot com is the domain. I think you can determine the rest!
@Z Yep on spam. Went traveling with some Brits of varying ages, and the older ones seemed to love the stuff. Ugh.
-wolfe