Tomorrow is the national holiday of Memorial Day, on which we remember those who have died in the service of the nation, from the Revolutionary War to the war being waged in our name against Iran. It is a holiday with decreasing meaning to modern Americans, who are no longer used to the huge death tolls of our past wars and who observe it mainly by shopping Memorial Day sales and having picnics in the warm spring weather.
It's a day that had a much deeper meaning for our parents and grandparents, and the horror of war gave rise to generations of poets like Wilfred Owen, the British soldier poet killed in action in France just a week before the end of the First World War.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Have a good day, and on this weekend, remember those who died far from home and family so you could shop the sales and enjoy the picnics. More thoughts coming.
Bilbo
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