11:11 AM 11/11/1919

[jmcquate]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
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.

 

[BackOrdered]

A great poem.

 

[dilbert123]

Great poem for the ages. I don't know about you guys, but I find it very hard to explain to someone who never served just what it was (and is) all about. There are so many things that go into a decision to serve your country in uniform. It was the best time of my life.

For a soldier I listed, to grow great in fame,
And be shot at for sixpence a day…

Charles Didbin

 

[voodooqueen]

Yusef Komunyakaa 1947—

Facing It​

​

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn’t,
dammit: No tears.
I’m stone. I’m flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I’m inside
the Viet Nam Veteran’s Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make the difference.
I go down the 58’022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap’s white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman’s blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird’s
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet’s image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I’m a window.
He’s lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she’s brushing a boy’s hair.


(1986)