Honoring the brave
On Saturday, May 17, Howard Johnson and about 35 other war veterans will hit the streets of Attleboro to raise money for fellow veterans in need through the sales of small red poppies.
It's a small, but symbolic tradition that began after the horror that was World War I. It takes place around Memorial Day and/or Veterans Day each year here, as well as other parts of the world. I've seen veterans in Quebec, England, Scotland and France doing the same and, I've learned, it's also a tradition in New Zealand and Australia.
So, before you head into Dunkin' Donuts for your Saturday cup of Joe, make sure you drop a few bucks into the tin and wear your poppy proudly. It's the least we can do for those who've given so much.
Speaking of World War I, some of the most powerful poetry written came out of the brutal trench warfare of that war -- battles that left up to 40 million people dead.
One of the best soldier-poets of the time was Britain's Wilfred Owen. Before being killed on the battlefield at 25, he left a number of works that questioned the "glory-of-war, for God-and-Country" attitude that was the norm in England at the time (much like the BS we experienced here thanks to the Bush-Cheney propaganda at the start of the illegal invasion of Iraq.)
What follows is Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est". The last lines of the poem, translated from the Latin are: "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country"
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.
It's a small, but symbolic tradition that began after the horror that was World War I. It takes place around Memorial Day and/or Veterans Day each year here, as well as other parts of the world. I've seen veterans in Quebec, England, Scotland and France doing the same and, I've learned, it's also a tradition in New Zealand and Australia.
So, before you head into Dunkin' Donuts for your Saturday cup of Joe, make sure you drop a few bucks into the tin and wear your poppy proudly. It's the least we can do for those who've given so much.
Speaking of World War I, some of the most powerful poetry written came out of the brutal trench warfare of that war -- battles that left up to 40 million people dead.
One of the best soldier-poets of the time was Britain's Wilfred Owen. Before being killed on the battlefield at 25, he left a number of works that questioned the "glory-of-war, for God-and-Country" attitude that was the norm in England at the time (much like the BS we experienced here thanks to the Bush-Cheney propaganda at the start of the illegal invasion of Iraq.)
What follows is Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est". The last lines of the poem, translated from the Latin are: "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country"
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.
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