Military history has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. The driving force behind my passion for the study of war has always been my vivid imagination. As a small boy, my love for military history began with the Romans, and their insatiable hunger for conquest. Later, when I was nine years old, my passion and attention turned to the Second World War, a subject that still remains dear to my heart. This does not mean my interest hasn't been piqued by other conflicts, but the two I mentioned above have made the most significant impact on me.

Historical events can always be linked, and the single greatest link, which is also the most powerful catalyst for the evolution of world history, is war. War gave birth to the Roman Empire; war ended the Roman Empire. The same war that ended one thousand years of Roman rule, ushered in the rise of the Ottoman Empire. And the war that saw the end of the Ottoman Empire, many centuries later, helped to shape the countries that we know today. Seven hundred years of existence can be linked by two wars. War has always been part of human nature, and yet it is such a terrible thing. As I grow older and witness historical events daily, I meditate on what my role is here on Earth. How can I affect the world in which I live? How can I make a positive impact?

My answer is always the same: give. Those who remember the NBC television series "ER" (1994- 2009), might recall one of the most poignant scenes in the show's history. It happened in Season 8, when Doctor Mark Greene dies. In the scene, his final words to his daughter were: "Be generous with your time, with your love, with your life." Those simple yet penetrating words of advice are some that serve me as guiding light in a world full of distractions.

I am generous in direct ways, through material gifts and kind gestures. I also give indirectly, by sharing with the world my art, my love and my attention. This is one of the reasons why this blog exists: I am giving to the world by looking into our past and remembering the fallen. So, today, I would like to share three poems by artists of our past; soldiers who suffered the traumas of war and still chose to give. They chose to give us their art.

For the Fallen

The first, For the Fallen, is a short and beautiful poem, published in The Times by English poet Laurence Binyon, in September 1914. It is about the "Fallen for the cause of the free." Those brave men and women, who "shall not grow old." Those who "went with songs to the battle, when they were young," with courage and conviction, selflessly sacrificing themselves for what they believed in. I invite you to read the poem and say a prayer for our fallen heroes, to thank them for their sacrifice. As Binyon wrote in his poem: "We will remember them."

For the Fallen

by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

In Flanders Fields

The second poem, In Flanders Fields, was penned by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae after the burial of a friend, who was a victim of the Great War. McCrae wrote In Flanders Fields from the point of view of a soldier killed in action, lying dead upon the battlefield. Dissatisfied with his work, McCrae discarded the poem, deeming it unworthy of publishing. Fellow soldiers recovered the poem and saved it from destruction. Short and haunting, it echoes with the millions of voices of soldiers who suffered the fate of the narrator. "Flanders Fields" is the nickname generally given to the Great War battlefields located in the Flanders provinces of Belgium and in the northernmost part of France.

In Flanders Fields

by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae

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.

Dulce et Decorum Est

This final one is my favorite. In many ways, Wilfred Owen writes this poem as if we're standing right beside him during a gas attack on the battlefield. The poem's riveting rhythm propels you forward, while its imagery turns your stomach. When I read this poem, I see a direct attack upon those of the high command who gave the orders to send men into battle, without ever leaving the safety and comfort of their own offices. The reason for that is found in the last two lines of the poem, which are Latin for "How sweet and honorable it is to lay one's life down for one's nation." Doesn't that sound like something an older, higher-ranking officer would tell a soldier whom he is sending to certain death?

Dulce et Decorum Est

by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Art can be beautiful. Art can also be painful, especially when it is used as a mirror, reflecting straight back into our own eyes, objectively telling us of the horrors we commit to each other. All three of the poems above, no matter their beauty, never cease to break my heart. They break my heart because of the stories they tell and the undeniable truth they convey: Despite all the loss and sadness born from war, today, in 2022, soldiers are still dying on battlefields all over the world. Will it ever stop?