ANZAC Gallipoli Remembrance: 25th April 1915
ANZAC poppy wrap |
I found this beautiful ANZAC day poppy wrap online. It was made for someone traveling to Gallipoli for the remembrance day celebrations; absolutely stunning!
As history unfolds: Gallipoli 100 commemorations at Chunuk Bair.
New Zealand and Australians join together in remembrance.
The poppy signifies so much to so many people. I have a bunch of poppies as part of my blog header for a reason; not just because it signifies the gathering up of flowers. As a teenager I learnt so much about the First World War from my English teacher at high school. These lessons have stayed with me for life. Learning about the battles and the appalling conditions experienced by soldiers during that campaign were expressed in First World War poetry.
This poem is iconic.
In Flanders Fields by John McCrae, May 1915.
For me this is the poetry that I remember:
The First World War poetry of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Rupert Brooke is what resonates most for me.
Anthem For Doomed Youth - Poem 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.
I began writing poetry as a teenager and even now I still write. I don't get to share my writing with others, but prefer to write for myself. My desire to record using an art journal or visual diary certainly makes more sense now I think about it.
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.
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.