Remembrance

It's Remembrance Day again.

I'm not normally the sort of person who dwells excessively on sadness - it does bad things to my rather dominant empathetic side - but today is one of those days when I permit myself to do just that. Despite being from an army family, spending three years in the Combined Cadet Force, and supporting the defence of the world against terrorists, I am no supporter of war.

Two years ago, I treated you all to a poem called Soldier. It's an older work of mine, but it's probably one of the ones I am most proud of. The execution is a little wonky, and it's definitely not as polished as much of my newer work, but I don't really care. Because that's not what this poem is for. I didn't write it with the intention of it being a polished, smooth piece of perfectly-crafted lyricism. I wrote it because I meant what I wrote.

There's something beautiful in the simplicity of emotion.

But Remembrance Day isn't just about showing emotion - it's about internal thought as well. Remembrance, to be exact.

Remembrance doesn't need much.
It doesn't need ten-page elegies.
It doesn't need banners and bands and firing cannons into chilly blue mornings.
It doesn't need the crowds, or the public declarations, or the month-long television specials.

It doesn't even need words at all.

All remembrance needs is a heart to hold it.

And maybe a voice or two, to pass it on.

"Soldier" - a poem for Remembrance Day

Today is Remembrance Day. That will mean something different to all of you, I know. Having grown up in an army family, I've always been very aware of how wars and death affect people - and I know it may one day affect mine too. So here's a poem I wrote today for all the soldiers - not just those in the World Wars - but for all soldiers who've fought and died for their countries.

Soldier
I stood at your graveside,
So many years before.
And as I stood I wondered,
What were you fighting for?

A flag, a friend, a country?
Or a higher, heavn'ly call?
Or were you simply fighting
For no reason, weren't you all?

You were only seventeen,
Or so your gravestone read.
Your name was simple, like the cross,
Stark white above your head.

Did you have a lover,
Waiting for you back at home?
Or did you leave a brother
To face the war alone?

I'll never know your answer,
But, I promise, this November
I'll wear my poppy proudly,
To show you I remember.