(no subject)
Remembering.
I'm not a huge poetry fan - I'm very ambivalent about it. I can probably count on two hands the number of poems I truly love. Off the top of my head, I can think of only three: America by Allen Ginsberg, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot, and In Flanders Fields by John McCrae. Among the reasons I love them is that I think reading them aloud makes them better (as opposed to most poetry, which makes me feel uncomfortable when read aloud). Something about the structure. Anyway.
This one still makes me cry every time. We didn't make it down to Victory Square this year - too much to do - and I'm feeling fairly regretful about it. Next year.
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.
I'm not a huge poetry fan - I'm very ambivalent about it. I can probably count on two hands the number of poems I truly love. Off the top of my head, I can think of only three: America by Allen Ginsberg, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot, and In Flanders Fields by John McCrae. Among the reasons I love them is that I think reading them aloud makes them better (as opposed to most poetry, which makes me feel uncomfortable when read aloud). Something about the structure. Anyway.
This one still makes me cry every time. We didn't make it down to Victory Square this year - too much to do - and I'm feeling fairly regretful about it. Next year.
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.