In the spring of 1915, in the midst of World War I, a Canadian poet named John McCrae was serving as a field surgeon near Ypres. He noticed bright red poppies -- a classic symbol of resurrection -- sprouting up among the all-too-new and common grave sites in the region. This image, along with the recent loss of a good friend in battle, inspired him to scribble down a poem he entitled "In Flanders Fields":
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
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.
In December of that year, McCrae's poem was published anonymously in the magazine Punch, and it quickly became a global sensation. Once his identity was discovered, McCrae became a household name.
Just after the war's end, McCrae's poem inspired an American named Moina Michael to write a passionate (if forgivably less accomplished) poetic response.
Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet -- to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.
And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.
Michael was also inspired to start selling silk poppies to raise money for wounded veterans returning from Europe. The practice spread to France and then to the U.K. in 1921, where Field Marshall Douglas Haig, president of the Royal British Legion, adopted the practice for the British Empire. The practice still flourishes today. This year, more than 400 poppy-selling stations are expected to raise millions for veterans in London alone, and more than 18 million of the flowers have been distributed throughout Canada. Many in the former British Empire refer to Remembrance Day (or Veterans Day here in the U.S.) simply as Poppy Day.
The holiday takes place this Thursday, Nov. 11. You might take a moment to read "In Flanders Fields" and to remember McCrae, who died of pneumonia while serving his country in January 1918.
The Guyliner: Why You Risk the Wrath of the Righteous Few if You Leave Your Poppy at Home
I remember when I was a little girl, my mother always giving me a quarter to give the Vets outside the stores, and in return, I got a red poppy...and now I know why.
Thank you for this most gentle Veteran's Day moment.
you say your grandad was attached to ANZAC forces and you mention the Canadian forces in Afghanistan and you also say your grandad left a regimental kilt
I was just wondering if he was either Scottish himself or ever in a Scottish regiment ???
Nice post.....though I fear mankind NEVER learns his lesson and senseless slaughter will always be a consequence
It's just a bank holiday now. It used to be a holiday for schools decades ago so kids, the girl guides and scouts fussing with their poppies on lapels would converge on cenotaphs and mark the occasion with sombre ceremonies.
I like the simple rhythm, but the underlying message isn't helping anyone.
in Flanders Fields:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsOsdGtBBTg
.
the green fields of France beautifully sung:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyiLfSHSqds
The battle conditions were absolutely horrific.
We cannot imagine, until we have been there ourselves.
I look at all my male friends today, and think- they would have been there, in all likelihood. They would have fought and undoubtedly some would have died.
If anyone wants a video on Remembrance day, check out Terry Kelly's "A Pittance of Time". So sad. So haunting.
No war has ever been won. It is only those that have never experienced one that want another.
The 'In Flanders Fields' verse and 'Buddy Poppies' were common some time ago. Not so much now days, except at VFW and Legion posts, in the US. -Other countries do the same.
An old friend, Australian, WWII Vet says the same. That country took a big hit.
Did anyone win?
the dead say to us fight no more in our name ; create peace for us up here and you down below
create peace by creating peace; dont fight ; create peace by healing all stress; establish remembrance day as RECONCILIATION day
no one ever recovers from war ; it was madness ; mainly caused by alcohol psychosis on every side ; the King the Kaiser the Czar were first cousins , grandsons of Queen Victoria;;
seek the one indivisiiible harmonious home of all diversity inorder to prevent war
WW1 was totally unnessessary and it was not about freedom it was a fight among empires ; some historians say if England had stayed out of the war on the continent then WW2 Stalin Hitler would not have ahppened;
on salt spring island someone makes home made poppy pins which say peace...peace poppies
the person selling the official poppies doesn tknow whether they are made in canada;
Join the " global country of world peace '
http://www.ppu.org.uk/poppy/
The white poppy predates the red poppy.
by Wilfred Owen
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.