Monday, May 25: The Scribbler
I wanted to write a Memorial Day column for today, but as it was coalescing in my mind, I kept hearing the refrain, “In Flanders fields, the poppies blow …”
In former days, wearing poppies on Veterans Day was common, even customary. That’s because Veterans Day was originally November 11, commemorating the end of World War I on November 11, 1918. “In Flanders Fields” is categorically a World War I poem, but not one that celebrates the service of all veterans. It specifically honors the dead.
We have an older holiday specifically intended for remembering those who have sacrificed all, and this is it. The first Memorial Day (then called Decoration Day) was on May 1, 1865, observed by liberated slaves at a former Confederate prisoner of war camp and mass grave in Charleston, SC—it moved to the end of the month the following year, and was designated as May 30 from 1868 until 1971, when it moved to the last Monday in May—and was intended to provide a day of reverent reflection on the deeds of those who fell during the American Civil War in salvation of the Union. As early as 1866, though, the Confederate dead began to be included as proper subjects for remembrance. And as more soldiers and sailors gave their lives in subsequent wars, it came to pass that all the souls lost to the horror of war are now celebrated.
Maybe the poppies are out of season. But it seems to me that young Dr. McCrae’s poem speaks as clearly in May as in November. McCrae was a Canadian. As if that matters. So rather than write something completely ineffectual and second rate, I yield the floor to him.
—JLW
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
by John McCrae
n Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween 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.
e are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
ake 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.
Very beautiful and appropriate, James. At services last Friday our rabbi read a poem by (former Librarian of Congress) Archibald MacLeish called “The Young Dead Soldiers.” You can read it here. http://tinyurl.com/amtyds
It would have been difficult to find something more appropriate for Memorial Day, James.
I liked The poem read by Rob’s rabbi. Here’s another with a personal meaning for me:
Carentan O Carentan
Trees in the old days used to stand
And shape a shady lane
Where lovers wandered hand in hand
Who came from Carentan.
This was the shining green canal
Where we came two by two
Walking at combat-interval.
Such trees we never knew.
The day was early June, the ground
Was soft and bright with dew.
Far away the guns did sound,
But here the sky was blue.
The sky was blue, but there a smoke
Hung still above the sea
Where the ships together spoke
To towns we could not see.
Could you have seen us through a glass
You would have said a walk
Of farmers out to turn the grass,
Each with his own hay-fork.
The watchers in their leopard suits
Waited till it was time,
And aimed between the belt and boot
And let the barrel climb.
I must lie down at once, there is
A hammer at my knee.
And call it death or cowardice,
Don’t count again on me.
Everything’s all right, Mother,
Everyone gets the same
At one time or another.
It’s all in the game.
I never strolled, nor ever shall,
Down such a leafy lane.
I never drank in a canal,
Nor ever shall again.
There is a whistling in the leaves
And it is not the wind,
The twigs are falling from the knives
That cut men to the ground.
Tell me, Master-Sergeant,
The way to turn and shoot.
But the Sergeant’s silent
That taught me how to do it.
O Captain, show us quickly
Our place upon the map.
But the Captain’s sickly
And taking a long nap.
Lieutenant, what’s my duty,
My place in the platoon?
He too’s a sleeping beauty,
Charmed by that strange tune.
Carentan O Carentan
Before we met with you
We never yet had lost a man
Or known what death could do.
— Louis Simpson
Perfect for the day! I’ll quote here from E.W. Hornung’s 1917 poem “Wooden Crosses”
The brightest gems of Valour in the Army’s diadem
Are the VC and the DSO, MC and DCM.
But those who live to wear them will tell you they are dross
Beside the Final Honour of a simple Wooden Cross.
Mahmoud, a friend and colleague of Thrush’s and mine invited us to his house for dinner along with 25-30 other people. With two fathers from Algeria, a Jewish family, a Swedish woman, and a dozen other nationalities, it was an all-American holiday, with grilled Middle Eastern lamb, couscous, a kosher casserole, hotdogs, hamburgers, a French torte, and terrific desserts.
This gathering did something missing from events past where the holiday meant picnics and watching the Indianapolis 500. Before eating, four people did short readings, including The Meaning of the Poppy and In Flanders Fields. It might have been my most meaningful Memorial Day ever.
Thanks to all of you who joined me in remembering, in my great namesake’s words, “that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
I believe.