Remembrance/Armistice Day (11 November)

[CHAIRBOY]

And not forgetting those losing their lives on duty, in more contemporaneous conflicts.

 

http://www.nationalmemorialarboretum.org/

[cloudybay]

One of my favourite war poems.............very short but poignant nonetheless

 

Do not despair

For Johnny-head-in-air;

He sleeps as sound

As Johnny underground.

Fetch out no shroud

For Johnny-in-the-cloud;

And keep your tears

For him in after years.

 

Better by far

For Johnny-the-bright-star,

To keep your head,

And see his children fed.

 

For Johnny

[Glamrock]

Sorry, but in my opinion there is bugger all "glorious" about the poor sods who died in the First World War, or since then.

 

They weren't all heroes - they weren't all there from choice - they were cannon fodder, sacrified by incompetent Generals in order to achieve very little, most of the time.

 

Much as we owe the men and women who have died for their country, I think the following is a far more accurate reflection of the "glory" of war.

 

Wilfred Owen

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 gas-shells dropping softly 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

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.

 

Very aptly named

[Agent Orange]

I was not glorifying war in any way whatsoever when I referred to the fallen as the 'Glorious Dead'. I think it is important that we remember the few that made the ultimate sacrifice whether it was for a just cause or not. I shall be attending a service to remember those who fell, including my great great uncle who was killed in the great war and more recent, the servicemen who I knew in the RAF Regiment who were killed in Iraq and Afghanistan.

[CHAIRBOY]

Syd Lucas dies 108 - another comrade to remember!

 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7712640.stm

[Alastair]

I think you have to consider the war that was being fought before you say they are "glorious dead".

 

My grandfather fought in the futile and totally pointless First World War, thankfully he survived otherwise I would not be posting this.

 

My father fought in the justifiable and morally correct Second World War, thankfully he survived otherwise I would not be posting this.

 

I belong to the lucky generation who were not conscripted to fight in any wars.

 

The current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are pointless and unjustified. I regret every single soldier who has been injured or died in fighting these wars.

[cressida]

'Every man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind. No man is an island.' - John Donne

[redrobbo]

Futility

 

Move him into the sun —

Gently its touch awoke him once,

At home, whispering of fields unsown.

Always it woke him, even in France,

Until this morning and this snow.

If anything might rouse him now

The kind old sun will know.

 

Think how it wakes the seeds —

Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides

Full-nerved, — still warm, — too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

— O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

To break earth's sleep at all?

 

Wilfred Owen

[redrobbo]

There are no "glorious dead" Agent Orange.

 

 

A Poem by redrobbo on the Eve of Poppy Day.

 

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

At home in England, three sisters cried,

When the letter came: said Harry had died.

When his plane was hit, his fate was sealed;

Lies buried now in a Flanders Field.

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

Down all the years his death still pains,

Through winter snows and summer rains,

Two sisters left, my Aunt, my Mother,

Remember Harry, their long lost brother.

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

I think of this young man, barely twenty-three,

My Uncle Harry, who was never known to me.

His diaries I've read - a handsome young man,

Loved dancing, smoked ciggies, a motorbike fan.

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

On Poppy Day, I'll bow my head,

And Eva, my aunt, a tear she will shed,

Though ninety-one now, his face she'll describe,

And she'll recall of time she went on a pillion ride.

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

The hurt's never stopped, never ever gone away,

It haunts these old ladies, right up to this day.

A brother they loved dearly, so young and so gay,

For you, and for me, with his life he did pay.

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

And when the dark of the blackness touches me so,

To a Derbyshire churchyard once more I will go,

To read an inscription on the family grave,

And stick in the earth a cross on a stave.

Harry gave of his life, so freedom is mine,

He died in his youth before he had time,

To marry, have kids, live his life to the full.

But don't give me no tosh, no lies and no bull

Of war heros, England's finest, and being so brave:

Harry just did his duty, it says on his grave.

 

A wreath I will lay, but no words will I say,

Just thoughts of young Harry on a cold Autumn day.

But I'll rage at all wars, at the terrible cost

Of young men that are killed, at the lives that are lost.

We're still fighting today, seem not to be learning

From old ladies, still crying, their memories still burning

Of a brother they loved, still close in their hearts,

Their Harry, my Uncle, a wrecked body in parts,

Found lying on a field in a foreign land,

Which is not, in his diary, how his life he had planned.

 

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

[Dozy]

There are no "glorious dead" Agent Orange.

 

 

A Poem by redrobbo on the Eve of Poppy Day.

 

...

The darkness still stretches beyond the end of night,

And I will not wear a poppy, not red and not white.

 

Having studied Wilfred Owen and other First World War poets at school, I've always refused to wear a poppy - even when I was in the Wrens, which was just about unheard of.

 

Your poem sums my reasons so much better than I ever could - thank you.