Arts
Please support the activities and outreach of Pilgrim People Brisbane
Poetry
John McCrae wrote In Flanders Fields in 1915 after losing a close friend and witnessing poppies growing in battle scarred fields. This poem is internationally renowned as it inspired the use of the poppy for commemorating all servicemen and women killed in conflict.
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.
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.
There was interest in Adrian’s Prayer Poem Sunday, July 2 2023.
Here it is for you to reflect on.
© All rights reserved
The world is murmuring again.
A soul perplexed, a soul in pain, or joy, or fear, or seeking gain.
A mixing-pot, many a tongue, antiquities to calls still young.
This is community, all are in the loop, bubbling, stirring, circling like a pot of soup.
All are at the table, one there is who knows;
Before, Behind, Within, Beyond - countless essence flows.
Savouring and sharing, weaving threads of care.
So who can taste the flavour, now, who is really there?
All will get sustenance, some will find it chilling, some will find a hidden dream;
for some it will be thrilling.
Most come back and who can say: what is real or what we pray?
Not to be thought about. Eh, not to fuss, it is the prayer that's praying us.
Adrian McNeil
Here it is for you to reflect on.
© All rights reserved
The world is murmuring again.
A soul perplexed, a soul in pain, or joy, or fear, or seeking gain.
A mixing-pot, many a tongue, antiquities to calls still young.
This is community, all are in the loop, bubbling, stirring, circling like a pot of soup.
All are at the table, one there is who knows;
Before, Behind, Within, Beyond - countless essence flows.
Savouring and sharing, weaving threads of care.
So who can taste the flavour, now, who is really there?
All will get sustenance, some will find it chilling, some will find a hidden dream;
for some it will be thrilling.
Most come back and who can say: what is real or what we pray?
Not to be thought about. Eh, not to fuss, it is the prayer that's praying us.
Adrian McNeil
SOLDIER TREES
Alan Skerritt
© All rights reserved
There was a line of soldier trees
That walked across the hill
And darkly looked so splendid
In the evening in the still.
They held the ridge against the night
No fright of might
No flight of light
Coloured legions of the sky
Banners touched by every dye
In majestic pageantry retreat
Regroup in dawning strength to meet
Those silent sentinels and greet
Another day.
Alan Skerritt
© All rights reserved
There was a line of soldier trees
That walked across the hill
And darkly looked so splendid
In the evening in the still.
They held the ridge against the night
No fright of might
No flight of light
Coloured legions of the sky
Banners touched by every dye
In majestic pageantry retreat
Regroup in dawning strength to meet
Those silent sentinels and greet
Another day.
|
SOMME POPPIES
Alan Skerritt © All rights reserved Your bodies, blood and bones Tired, spilt, broken Have blessed Somme soil Sanctified Somme soil. Your indomitable spirit Issues as new life Simple, not complex As all great truths are... |
Producing Poppies
Crisp colour Plain Red for the dead Born again Red for sunset Interrupting Solemn Somme Slumber To soften those fields Of cruel carnage To remove the rage With painted poppies of peace. |
Please support the activities and outreach of Pilgrim People Brisbane