Tuesday, November 11, 2008

11.11, 90 years ago.

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. 


And one for Canela Cruz, in Iraq now...


Ashbah

The ghosts of American soldiers
wander the streets of Balad by night,
unsure of their way home, exhausted,
the desert wind blowing trash
down the narrow alleys as a voice
sounds from the minaret, a soulful call
reminding them how alone they are,
how lost. And the Iraqi dead,
they watch in silence from rooftops
as date palms line the shore in silhouette,
leaning toward Mecca when the dawn wind blows.

3 comments:

lindsay said...

Not to nitpick a lovely post but it's actually "In Flanders field the poppies blow"

Bo... said...

I love the poem.

James Wilk M.D. said...

As a poet myself, I think you've done a disservice to the authors. You should give credit to the poets who wrote these poems: Canadian WWI veteran, John McCrae, in the first instance and American Iraq war veteran, Brian Turner, in the second instance.