John
McCrae studied in his home province at the Royal Military College and the University of Toronto. He later worked as a professor and surgeon on both sides of the border. Meanwhile, he started writing poetry. Perhaps, it was a way to distract himself from the routines of
medical study. He was a man of contrasts - even as a doctor, he went off to
war, serving in the Boer War in South Africa as a
captain of artillery. How did he reconcile his oath to do no harm with
the duties of a military officer?
He was old enough when the First World War started that he could have stayed home. This was a man past forty, after all. Instead, he went off to the Great War, to the hell of trench warfare, to serve as a field surgeon and gunner in the front lines. It was a war that resolved nothing and killed millions, but McCrae was hip deep in it, seeing the full effects of machine gun fire, artillery attacks, and poison gas on his fellow soldiers. He saw comrades die, on a scale that would have seemed unthinkable a few years earlier. The death of a friend inspired him to write the poem that he’d be remembered by.
During
the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915, he was
sitting at the back of a field ambulance, looking out on poppies growing across the
ruined landscape of Flanders. He wrote the poem down and then discarded it, but a
friend saved it to be published in a magazine. In our time,
we’d call it going viral. In his time, it was just a poem that caught the
imagination of the reader. In 1919, it was republished posthumously in a
collection of his works.
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 the 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.
John
McCrae didn’t survive to see the war end. In 1918, he contracted
pneumonia and died. He was buried with full military honours in a
Commonwealth cemetery in France. Yet his name endures, because that
poem resonated with so many people. It is read across national borders at this
time of year, because it speaks on a fundamental level.
Today, McCrae’s legacy is secure. Schools bear his
name. There is a gallery
in the Canadian War Museum named for him. Plus, his extraordinary poem has
endured the ravages of time. Though he is buried in France, his name
adorns a tombstone in the McCrae family plot in his hometown. His former house now serves as a local museum explaining the history and the legacy.
Remembrance Day is observed annually in Commonwealth Countries on November Eleventh. The veterans
of McCrae’s war are all gone now. Veterans of the war that followed are fewer
each year. Still, we remember them. We honour them. Lest we forget.
William Kendall is a writer, photographer and rock climber from the Ottawa Valley. When he's not working on his world domination scheme (no golfers allowed), he can be found writing the forthcoming Heaven & Hell, plus his personal blog Speak Of The Devil.
William Kendall is a writer, photographer and rock climber from the Ottawa Valley. When he's not working on his world domination scheme (no golfers allowed), he can be found writing the forthcoming Heaven & Hell, plus his personal blog Speak Of The Devil.
Excellent timing, Lyn! The poem itself turns up in my photoblog in the next couple of days as well....
ReplyDeleteVery thought-provoking, William. Demonstrates how the poet's life experience drives the poem.
ReplyDeletei love it and your writing skill is perfect you are great admin keep it up
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