Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae: In Flanders Fields

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.

Hey, guess who's back? I'm returning to 3BPoetryThoughts to finish the last 3 posts I never got around to 1) because poetry's important and 2) I need to warm up for NaNoWriMo in July and although I saw 642 Things to Write About in Urban Outfitters the other day, I was too cheap to buy it.

This, in case you didn't know, is the poem that inspires the Veterans of Foreign Wars to give you red poppies when you donate, and many countries around the world to use red poppies on their various Remembrance/Memorial Days. I first read this poem/made a poppy at Empire Girl's State when I went summer after my junior year, and I now have a red poppy living on my purse after donating to the VFW ladies at the local Farmer's Market on Saturday. They were very pleasant, and said, "Oh look, we've got a brain over here!" when I mentioned I went to RIT (I had my Imagine RIT Volunteer shirt on, which they asked about).

Memorial Day was also this past Monday. Both of my Grandfathers served in the military; on my mother's side her father was a veteran of the Korean War, although I never met him and she barely knew him at all (he died when she was 9) and my paternal grandfather didn't specifically serve in any wars but was a Green Beret Paratrooper and toured as a sharp shooter with the military afterwards. He died, what, five years ago now? Maybe 6. Given my stats with Left 4 Dead 2 I clearly did not inherit any of his sharpshooting ability.

In regards to the poem I guess the overwhelming feeling it emanates is legacy. The people in the poem are the Dead, yet part of them remains 1) in the poppies that have spouted up where they are buried (the author John McCrae had to personally bury one of his best friends shortly before he wrote the poem) 2) their spirit, previously very alive as described in the second stanza and 3) their cause, which their comrades must take up after them. And not to mention John Green again (spoiler alert, I only have two posts after this one, but he's gonna come up again) but An Abundance of Katherines, which Adam is reading now, is partially about whether or not we create something that lasts forever, and The Fault in Our Stars likewise deals with the impact we have after death. Having read both of those and, well, just living, it's obvious that not everyone will make the kind of impact that will be remembered centuries onward. I'm almost done reading Don Quixote at the moment, and part of me wonders if Cervantes actually knew that people would be reading his stories for ages to come, because Cervantes was extremely meta and does mention at numerous points that Don Quixote will live throughout history. An Abundance of Katherines reaches the previous conclusion and decides it's ok, and that living your life beholden to making an impact to be remembered for times to come is not a fulfilling way to live your life. Living life the way you want to, doing what makes you passionate, and positively affecting those around you is the fulfilling way to live your life. If you manage to create something powerful enough to live on after you by doing this, all the better.

That being said, I think those who are put through the perils of war and make the kinds of sacrifices that war requires deserve the kind of legacy this poem resonates. It's rumored that McCrae tried to throw this poem away but his colleagues saved it and made him publish it, and I'm glad they did so. Veterans deserve some way to continue to live on, even if it's through a small red flower. McCrae's simple poem, written probably out of his grief, is a very good memorial not only to the soldiers he fought with in WWI, but all soldiers before and after as well. Once again, poetry's important.

Happy belated Memorial Day everybody.
-Val

Infinite

I put the roots of sky inside my jar

And powered up the sunset and infused

The college thoughts with liquid birdsongs

The drops of stars upon the daisies served as base

I used the thorns and stitched the northern lights

Alas, I stood upon the smoldered steps of night

With the Universe painted on my hands

I close my eyes and almost laughing find

The city of Rochester ebbing into smoke

The willow and the ash and maybe birch

The clock-tower stands possible

Air, blow me to the innocence of time

****

Well this is the last day of April. I've had a fun time writing poems and reading Sam and Val's posts as well. They did a great job with all the poems and their commentary is really intense and deep. Both of them are very impressive and talented people and I find myself in awe of them quite often.

Flattery aside, this poem is me putting aside all my stress and trying to see the bigger picture. The quarter here at RIT is almost ending, as you all know, and it's been a hell of a time recently. But I guess if you look past it and see all the amazing things that we've done or are doing or will do, it's amazing and beautiful. I've learned so much this year considering academia as well as social. I'm so thankful for all the friends I made this year and I will miss them terribly over the summer. 

Sappiness aside, I don't know if I have much more to say. It's been a long week and it's only Tuesday. But my whole life is opened up to me with so many opportunities. If I put away the stress, my potential is limitless, and it's the same with all of you. So don't worry yourselves, you are loved, and you can make it through weeks 10 and finals. 

Godspeed. ~Sarah xo

But Not I

Can a man be a fraud?
Sure! When his honor's at stake,
not everyone measures up.

But not I

Can a man be a cheat?
Yeah! If profit's at stake,
we all want our share.

But not I

Can a man be a liar?
You bet! If a man's in a pinch,
he'll worm his way out.

But not I

Can a man be a sloth?
Oh yes! To choose play over work,
is what everyone does.

But not I

Can a man be complete?
Why not! It seems everyone has
a woman of their own.

but not i

Yes, I know, this is outdated. I do have a wonderful girlfriend now and I love her to death. Anyway, there was a point in time where I was rather down-trodden and a little lonesome. I am glad that has passed, and I'm glad I got at least this poem out of it. Hope you all enjoy! 

Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

Robert Frost - Wind and Window Flower

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.



Hi everyone! So today's little touch of love comes from the great Robert Frost (aptly named, as a lot of his poems had ice themes. Go figure). Frost has some of my favorite imagery, and he does so well personifying some rather obscure items; in this case wind and a potted plant. I'm pretty sure we're supposed to sympathize with the wind in this poem, rather than the plant. I'm not really sure, but the plant sounds really aloof. That might just be me though. This wind is looking in on her every night (wow, that came out really stalker-ish) and all she can do is sit there and think "wow, I'm a plant. Go me!" When she finally realizes that the wind wanted her, she falls over and pouts. Go figure. Anyway, moral of my story today: don't be a plant or the wind, they both suck.


Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

In the Mind

Sunset’s red, redder than nervous terror
Don’t be afraid or

Alone.

Sun blazes embers through eye corners
“You too are human, even though you’re mad,”
He says softly through radiation.
Like a vivid hyperbole
The sun plunged into April’s freshness
And stumbled from open windows
With a voice of happiness

And fear.

“Don’t deny me; you’ll know I will find you.”
A feverish jauntiness
Obliquely reeling shrieks
Like a refugee forever on the run
But the sun is always

Watching.

Staring back at the existential abyss
That haunts me so and trying
To grab from it a sense of self
Half wanting to keep walking
Half asleep only
Half looking at it in times


***

This poem was a bit spontaneous. And unedited. So I'm sorry if it's not super good. I might edit it later, and make a series poem out of it. We'll find out.

Over the past few days I've been listening to a musical called Next to Normal, which is about a woman who has bipolar disorder and hallucinations and how it affects her life and that of her family's (I don't want to give any spoilers if any of you want to listen/see it on your own. I know I already told Sam how it goes). It's really intense actually. I really appreciate modern musicals covering topics that are more controversial: Rent, Spring Awakening, Equus, and Hair to name a few others.

Recent days I feel like I am going insane with all the work I'm doing and all the food and sleep I'm not getting. I suppose I'm not actually going crazy, but it certainly feels like it. 

In the poem, the sun is suppose to be the craziness because it's always with you when you're awake. It's a part of your every day. And it burns and it's everywhere. And then the abyss is the change, getting help. I suppose that once you get into a routine, it's scary to have a change. Especially when the changes mean medication or therapy. People aren't defined by their problems of course, but it's scary to think about that the person that you think you are, isn't who you actually are (?). Are my words making sense?

Lemme know you're opinions and things. Hope you all have a great week. I'll try and post another poem soon-ish. Godspeed. ~Sarah

The Poppy and the Pansy

Quiet, the Poppy walked into the room;
her sight so soft and delicately hued.
Silence hung in the air, fragrance imbued.
Chills spread, ripples of her softest perfume.

The tired old cantank'rous Cattle, whom
if he's observed is shown as coarse and lewd,
hides his face, and like all of those so shrewd,
appears to be a flower, full in bloom.

Now if this Bull was naught but coarsely grown
the Poppy must refuse the Bull's advance,
for if the Bull's allowed a second thought
the Pansy's love is caught twixt fought and flown.
And Poppy's life now ever shall be caught
in Cattle's hell, bereft of Pansy's chance.

So, I apologize for missing my post on Thursday, it was kind-of a hectic day and I didn't get time to post. This poem I decided to write after reading a novel about a woman with two suitors. The novel was all about the story from the woman's point of view, so I wanted to throw in a poem about the story from the suitor's perspective. In the novel the suitors didn't really have characters, they were more images or symbols than people, and I felt that rather unfair. Yes, I know, this usually occurs with the genders switched around, but it does happen this way so don't snark at me about it. 

I don't know how many of readers have experienced this situation in their life, but I have on multiple occasions. There are a few times where I've finally plucked up the courage to ask someone out, only to find that they're already taken. Once it happened before I actually asked her, but the other times I had have the awkward "Oh, well, I'm already taken" conversation. If you haven't already experienced this, I envy you and hope you never have to. Anyway, enough jibber-jabber for now. See you all tomorrow with another poem! Happy Saturday 

Signing off ~Sam Zimmerman

peppercorn

fool thinking a blushing arm that bent
round you in bed, that would extend to me

across a room still crowded with the breath
of friends and pet the dizzy hair above

my pretty little head, could help defend
or even wave away the tiny mess

of rainclouds and the slush-stained galoshes
from the snow globe in my chest

my life is energy dispersed as waves
in a hundred million years I will 

explode into a retarded smudge of protons
and reform into cast-away planets

full of dust-choke and nebula-bound sky where
the highs and lows no longer bear the sayable

but I'll hold on like a sinner to a prayer
like the humble flint in an old man's eyes

with bones bent forward leaning
in osteoporosis reaching for a little more

but living is no reason to continue, everything
begins and everything is desperate

****


Guys, tomorrow is Friday. I'm so thankful. 

The weather is so nice today and I'm really happy about that too. It was the Rochester wind that drove me inside to finally get work done and I poem instead oops.

The first part of this poem is about the past. It's pertinent for today I suppose. 

The middle part is about the future, and how people don't really matter, and if there is any meaning, there are no words for it. 

The end is what humans do, we hold onto every little thing and make something so important out of it, whether it has significance or not. Perhaps it out of stubbornness, perhaps out of not wanting it to be proven nothing matters. 

Things matter, I think you can make meaning out of things but they can only have meaning to you. Like I have a bouquet of roses in my room that are dead and wilted but I keep them because of the memories; to everyone else they are probably seen as trash. Plus, I've had experiences that I can't really explain to other people because I know they wont understand, they wont be impacted by the experience or feel the significance because it's mine. 

"All men have the stars, but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travellers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all the stars are silent. You--you alone--will have the stars as no one else has them." ~The Little Prince

For those of you who haven't read this book it's fantastic. It's a French children's story actually, but it's really philosophical and has a lot of depth. To me, it's the meaning of life. Genius. 

That's all for today. Have a great Friday tomorrow, you deserve it. Godspeed. ~Sarah