Reflecting and Remembering

     Lest we forget, living in the relative peace of Western Europe, just what war can do, November serves as a month for reflecting on the consequences of war and the sufferings of those who still endure it now, in 2017.

My poem “Merciless Day” was last year set to music by composer Simon Mold. If you would like to hear the music and poem, please follow this youtube link.

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Remembering November 11th, 1918

Even to those born in the middle of the 20th century like me, and especially because so many of our parents and grandparents lost their lives in one or both World Wars, the years 1914-1918 do not seem far away at all. I made this same post last year and make no apologies for repeating it.

Here’s my remembrance for November 11th.

TAPESTRY: A Poem of Remembrance
You daughters of Normandy
And you who wield the needle through the lancing,
Branching threads of Ypres and Arras cloth—
Weep.

No wool or flax from the low low fields
Of Flanders can match the knotted intricacy,
The lacework, tracework
Of sword and spear and pitching pike,
The criss-cross-stitch savagery,
Brown broidery futility
Of Harold among the trees,
Of Hastings blood poured out on Bayeux tapestry.

You women of Picardy
And you who shove the shuttle through the branching,
Lancing looms of Lancashire cloth—
Mourn.

No homespun or hessian from the rolling mills
Of Blackburn can match the intricate knottedness,
The tracework, lacework
Of trench and gun and bloody bayonet,
The Christ-crucifying savagery,
Red poppy insanity
Of Tommy among the trees,
Of wasting blood poured out on Somme and Passchendaele.
© Lizzie Ballagher

2014-06-26 12.56.56

 

Remembering November 11th, 1918

Even to those born in the middle of the 20th century like me, and especially because so many of our parents and grandparents lost their lives in one or both World Wars, the years 1914-1918 do not seem far away at all.

Here’s my remembrance for November 11th.

TAPESTRY: A Poem of Remembrance
You daughters of Normandy
And you who wield the needle through the lancing,
Branching threads of Ypres and Arras cloth—
Weep.

No wool or flax from the low low fields
Of Flanders can match the knotted intricacy,
The lacework, tracework
Of sword and spear and pitching pike,
The criss-cross-stitch savagery,
Brown broidery futility
Of Harold among the trees,
Of Hastings blood poured out on Bayeux tapestry.

You women of Picardy
And you who shove the shuttle through the branching,
Lancing looms of Lancashire cloth—
Mourn.

No homespun or hessian from the rolling mills
Of Blackburn can match the intricate knottedness,
The tracework, lacework
Of trench and gun and bloody bayonet,
The Christ-crucifying savagery,
Red poppy insanity
Of Tommy among the trees,
Of wasting blood poured out on Somme and Passchendaele.
© Lizzie Ballagher

2014-06-26 12.56.56