Thank you

which always tears me up.

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,
It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,
It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so!
But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be,
You'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an Ave there for me.
And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,
For you will bend and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me!

Irishmans heart.

If ye break faith with us who die

Sadly, that happened. And the US falls yet another notch.

of the year to President Hoover... I remember the wonderful felt poppies that used to be sold to help veterans...

My aunt's middle name was Viola (not her first) and she was not from Belvidere, IL... my grandfather was from Belvidere and went out with his unit from there... my aunt was born in Vermont, but my grandmother, aunt and father, at age 1, moved to the VFW Home for widows and orphans after my grandfather died...

did a lot of my growing up here...

https://www.vfwnationalhome.org/history

It made me feel so important that I was helping Veterans of foreign wars. My grandmother was the president of the local VFW and recruited kids to do the selling. Really looked forward to raising money for a good cause. Thanks to my grandmother and poppies, I became an activist!

to help the vets, even though we had next to nothing ourselves for many years.

and high quality felt... I used to be so proud to be able to buy them every year

this is still fun... the American Legion Auxiliary has a contest every year for poppy art!

https://www.alaforveterans.org/Programs/Poppy-Poster-Winners/

and so nice you have the article ... Thanks for sharing it.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_McCrae

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,
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.

Thank you.

[link:https://www.cwgc.org/find-war-dead/casualty/84214/mccrae,-john/|

Rain


Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight or lying still awake
Solitary, listening to the rain,
Either in pain or thus in sympathy
Helpless among the living and the dead,
Like a cold water among broken reeds,
Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
Like me who have no love which this wild rain
Has not dissolved except the love of death,
If love it be towards what is perfect and
Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.

By Edward Thomas

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/edward-thomas

The Superfluous Woman
By
Vera Brittain

Ghosts crying down the vistas of the years,
Recalling words
Whose echoes long have died,
And kind moss grown
Over the sharp and blood-bespattered stones
Which cut our feet upon the ancient ways.

But who will look for my coming?

Long busy days where many meet and part;
Crowded aside
Remembered hours of hope;
And city streets
Grown dark and hot with eager multitudes
Hurrying homeward whither respite waits.

But who will seek me at nightfall?

Light fading where the chimneys cut the sky;
Footsteps that pass,
Nor tarry at my door.
And far away,
Behind the row of crosses, shadows black
Stretch out long arms before the smouldering sun.

But who will give me my children?

WWI from a woman's point of view (hers) and the tragic deaths of her beloved brother, her fiance and one of her best friends. It was a very poignant and critical look at the war and how it left nobody unscathed.

A call to arms masquerading as a meditation on loss:-

“The torch; be yours to hold it high!”

John McCrae saw the horrors of that war, but wished for more young men at the front. Unconscionable. Remember Flanders Fields. Don’t let them die in vain. Enrol.

Roll up roll up for the magical murder machine, step right this way.

different ideal.

Yes, war is a terrible lie, a terrible tragedy foisted by governments upon people like you and me.

Yet we do fight wars, and for Trump to disdain a visit to the cemeteries where the hundreds of thousands of allied and American dead lie is an act of great disrespect. My family fought in the Revolution, 1812, Civil War, the Spanish American War, WWI, WWII, Vietnam and Desert Storm. I would not have us forget their sacrifices.

Funny, right now my wife has a horror movie on. Saturday night gore-fest or the like.

But that is nothing, nothing to the real horror - the horror that is war.

McCrae was a fanatic:-

Fighting and dying against the forces of oppression in both world wars. And even encouraging others to do the same.

How horrible.

Because this lately.

It is his cynical use of the fallen to encourage enlistment. He later supported conscription of course. A doctor who wanted to get back to the guns = a fanatic, not a loyal soldier.

And hurry back to the front are fanatics?

I am god damned glad there were a whole lot of northern fanatics who rushed to the battle field, and encouraged others to do the same when my ancestors decided that slavery was more important than being an American. Or were they to be condemned as well?

I am in awe - that is the word- of those who bore arms in the fight for our way of life, our civilisation. I salute them. I honor all the sacrifices at war and those at home. My cousin served in Vietnam - not a ‘good war’ and I am proud of him too. Anything I say, behind the comfomfort of a keyboard will sound mealy mouthed, but I honor all those who fought so that we might have a better future.

I take issue with McCrae and his Poem for the reasons stated. On the 100th anniversary of the end of WWI it galls me to have it presented again as a thoughtful reflection of the costs of war. It is not.

It was presented not as the cost of war.

But the cost of freedom. That is how most people read it. And how it was intended.

A call to arms, exploiting the fallen
and recognised as such at the time:



I prefer this:

The killing and dying were all done in vain,
For, young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again and again and again and again."

I hate war. I hate the idea that anyone should even HAVE to "take up our quarrel with the foe." But it's true that sometimes, we must.

A poem that called for more men to be butchered at the front - keep the faith lest be die in vain. This is a poem that celebrates ONGOING sacrifice.

McCrae was a physician who liked killing:-

From June 1, 1915, McCrae was ordered away from the artillery to set up No. 3 Canadian General Hospital at Dannes-Camiers near Boulogne-sur-Mer, northern France. C.L.C. Allinson reported that McCrae "most unmilitarily told [me] what he thought of being transferred to the medicals and being pulled away from his beloved guns. His last words to me were: 'Allinson, all the goddamn doctors in the world will not win this bloody war: what we need is more and more fighting men.”

Marching through countries they'd never seen
Virgins with rifles, a game of charades
All for a children's crusade

John NcCrae was a Canadian Physician who, at the front wanted to get out of the healing business into killing:-

“Allinson, all the goddamn doctors in the world will not win this bloody war: what we need is more and more fighting men”

And that’s what In Flanders Fielf was- a call to arms - don’t let our brave men die in vain”

The final stanza = send more men.

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.

Do not break faith with us, enroll now. Roll up for the magical murder machine, step right this way.

IF YOU WANT TO MOURN THE DEAD, AND THE COSTS OF WAR, DO NOT CITE THIS POEM.

If not now, when. The guy was a warmonger.

Here's an acapella version of this timeless song...

It's fifty long springtimes since she was a bride,
But still you may see her at each Whitsuntide
In a dress of white linen with ribbons of green,
As green as her memories of loving.

The feet that were nimble tread carefully now,
As gentle a measure as age will allow,
Through groves of white blossoms, by fields of young corn,
Where once she was pledged to her true love.

The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow free--
No young men to turn them, our pastures go seed
They are gone where the forests of oak trees before
Have gone, to be wasted in battle.

Down from the green farmlands and from their loved ones
Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons.
There's a fine roll of honor where the Maypole once stood,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.

There's a straight row of houses in these latter days
All covering the downs where the sheep used to graze.
There's a field of red poppies, a wreath from the Queen
But the ladies remember at Whitsun,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.


Songwriter: John Austin Marshall

Memorial Rain, by Archibald MacLeish
For Kenneth MacLeish, d. 1918

Ambassador Puser the ambassador
Reminds himself in French, felicitous tongue,
What these (young men no longer) lie here for
In rows that once, and somewhere else, were young . . .

All night in Brussels the wind had tugged at my door:
I had heard the wind at my door and the trees strung
Taut, and to me who had never been before
In that country it was a strange wind, blowing
Steadily, stiffening the walls, the floor,
The roof of my room. I had not slept for knowing
He too, dead, was a stranger in that land
And felt beneath the earth in the wind’s flowing
A tightening of roots and would not understand,
Remembering lake winds in Illinois,
That strange wind. I had felt his bones in the sand
Listening.

. . . Reflects that these enjoy
Their country’s gratitude, that deep repose,
That peace no pain can break, no hurt destroy,
That rest, that sleep . . .

At Ghent the wind rose.
There was a smell of rain and a heavy drag
Of wind in the hedges but not as the wind blows
Over fresh water when the waves lag
Foaming and the willows huddle and it will rain:
I felt him waiting.

. . . Indicates the flag
Which (may he say) enisles in Flanders plain
This little field these happy, happy dead
Have made America . . .

In the ripe grain
The wind coiled glistening, darted, fled,
Dragging its heavy body: at Waereghem
The wind coiled in the grass above his head:
Waiting—listening . . .

. . . Dedicates to them
This earth their bones have hallowed, this last gift
A grateful country . . .

Under the dry grass stem
The words are blurred, are thickened, the words sift
Confused by the rasp of the wind, by the thin grating
Of ants under the grass, the minute shift
And tumble of dusty sand separating
From dusty sand. The roots of the grass strain,
Tighten, the earth is rigid, waits—he is waiting—
And suddenly, and all at once, the rain!

The way his high school director did it one year was incredibly moving. Then I saw him perform it at FSU. The use of a distant bugler, a French horn, and the most spectacular tenor soloist was just chilling. I don't think there was a dry eye at the Ruby Diamond concert hall that day.

When back when, I used to play in folk festivals in Germany. One time, there were a lot of musicians from Scotland, and one was there who had since moved to Australia, but was back touring Europe at the time of the festival. Really nice guy. His name was Eric Bogle. His song was alternately called "The Green Fields of France" but is better known as "No Man's Land." Eric's lyrics were quite powerful as well:

Well how do you do, Private William McBride
Do you mind if I sit here down by your grave side?
A rest for awhile in the warm summer sun
I've been walking all day and I'm nearly done
And I see by your gravestone that you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, William McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er ye as they lowered you down?
Did the bugle sing 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers o' the Forest'?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
And though you died back in 1916
To that loyal heart are you always 19
Or are you just a stranger without even a name
Forever enclosed behind some glass-pane
In an old photograph torn and tattered and stained
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er ye as they lowered you down?
Did the bugle sing 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers o' the Forest'?

Well the sun it shines down on these green fields of France
The warm wind blows gently and the red poppies dance
The trenches are vanished now under the plough
No gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now
But here in this graveyard it is still No Man's Land
And the countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
And a whole generation that was butchered and downed

Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er ye as they lowered you down?
Did the bugle sing 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers o' the Forest'?

And I can't help but wonder now Willie McBride
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you the cause?
Did you really believe them that this war would end war?
But the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame -
The killing, the dying - it was all done in vain
For Willie McBride, it's all happened again
And again, and again, and again, and again

Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the pipe lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er ye as they lowered you down?
Did the bugle sing 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers o' the Forest'?

In all the world of Irish music and peace music that came to me across the many thousands of miles, I had never heard of him until I took a music tour to Ireland just under a decade ago and got to hear him in a small setting. His focus has been on The Troubles, and his lyrics just undid me. I read his bio "Songman" and know he did the folk music fests in East and West Germany -- but he may be a bit older than you -- but it's why I ask.

Amazing life you live, DFW.

The East Germans were allowed to finance Communist Party outdoor festivals in the west for a while, and my (then to-be) wife told me there was great music at these things, so I went along once. Hannes Wader performed (this was before he left the party), and the Sands family did, too. The sound system wasn't good enough to understand their lyrics, but their music sounded fine. I didn't like all the heavy propaganda being tossed at me at every turn, so it was the first and last one I went to.

PS--it doesn't seem all that amazing to me. I just happen to know or run into a few special folks now and then, the most special of which I even married

...the fact that he was going somewhere Americans were unable to go.

But you were not allowed to go beyond the city limits, had to be out by midnight, and were required to change 25 D-marks for as many East German marks (worthless). You were sometimes followed and interrogated by the East Germans at the station where you caught the subway back to the West. I was interrogated numerous times, and from the questions they asked, it was obvious I had been followed. The first time, it was very intimidating. I was the only one in the room without a gun, an East German uniform or the right to stand up without permission. Afterward, I got used to it, but I had to be careful not to address them in Russian. It may have been the language of their colonial masters, but I don't think they appreciated Americans speaking it to them when they already knew my German was fluent.

I'm trying to recall some of Tommy Sands' music (my massive CD collection is in boxes since we moved a year ago, which is really annoying). Like the Clancy Brothers, he grew up in Northern Ireland -- ah, you may know or be able to find online "There Were Roses," about the deaths of two young men he knew.

Sorry, when I get into music and poetry my mind goes wandering in the fields of my library.

>sigh< It's another day of watching fire news here in California. My SIL has friends in Paradise (Northern Cal) she can't get hold of, and the whole town was just wiped off the map. Out where we live in Ventura, there is fire at the south end of the county, crossing over into LA county, and of course the Malibu fire seems to be canyon-hopping pretty briskly. The Santa Ana winds are up again today. --- And that *hole we are stuck with as president can only sneer at the misery and loss of fellow Americans while disgracing us on the world stage.

That Trump couldn't care less wasn't mentioned--I guess the European media takes that for granted by now.

Some guys I used to admire greatly in the 1980s once did a piece inspired by the Santa Ana winds (called, coincidentally "Santa Ana" ).