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.
- John McCrae
Out of the muck and mire of the First World War, the words of the poet soldiers give us glimmers of humanity.
What better way to remember them, remember all the dead, than through those words.
It is a mission that has captured the Canadian actor R.H. Thomson heart and soul. And now it has captured the National Arts Centre as well, as the orchestra prepares for a tour of the United Kingdom beginning Oct. 23 in Edinburgh, that honours the 100th anniversary of the Great War and those Canadians who fought in it. “Theatre and narrative are always important to me, but the central chord in my life is music. I would go crazy without music,” Thomson said by way of explanation.
Next week, before concerts on the NAC Orchestra tour of the United Kingdom, choirs will greet patrons with a performance of a piece of music called the Song of the Poets. It is the product of Thomson’s fertile imagination and the musical talents of composer Abigail Richardson and the NACO.
It began about a year ago, Thomson says, as many things do at the NAC, with a meeting with Peter Herrndorf.
“I approached Peter and said in the best of worlds we would commemorate the First World War with music, and a choir is the best way to do that,” Thomson said.
Fortunately Herrndorf agreed.
But before, some context. Thomson runs an organization called The World Remembers, which is dedicated to ensuring we do remember all of the war dead on all sides from the First World War. Given political complications, this is not an easy task, but Thomson has made it his life’s work. TWR, as it is known, does this through the website theworldremembers. org. But the organization also does a lot of outreach to schools and communities across the country.
“The World Remembers is difficult because it’s got politics on it. It’s got fundraising challenges right, left and centre. There’s political complexities with many nations. This isn’t simple and it’s what my life is about today,” says Thomson, 67.
The actor hasn’t taken a gig since he began work on this project a few years ago and he has nothing on the near horizon either.
That’s where The Song of the Poets comes in. It is intended to be available to any musical organization that wishes to perform it. The composer and the orchestras that have helped commission the work have forgone royalties to ensure that happens and there has been a lot of take-up so far. In Ottawa, for example, Lisgar Collegiate is one school that is working on a performance.
Thomson says The Song of the Poets is the first of a cycle that will, hopefully, include a Song of the Mothers, the Caregivers, the Soldiers, the Civilians.
“The World Remembers is trying to hear from the people of that time and to remember them through their voices, their names and their faces.”
First things first. How do you pick poets?
“One tries to find good poetry,” Thomson said. “There is a range out there from the most pedantic to really good. The poets dealing with World War I, at some point, some of them started to get it.”
Selecting In Flanders Fields was a no-brainer. And something by Wilfred Owen was also a relatively easy choice. The poem in this case is called Futility.
John McCrae, author of In Flanders Fields, was a physician by profession.
Archive photo, Wikimedia Commons
The German is the soldier-poet Gerrit Engelke, who died just before the end of the war in 1918, joining Owen and McCrae on the casualty list. His contribution rounds out the view from both sides.
But, for Thomson, the revelation was the work of two French soldier-poets, Louis Aragon and Luc Durtain, both of whom survived the war and went on to long literary careers. “Louis Aragon, when I finally read the piece and realized that he’s actually talking about suicide, it linked up to the suicide of guys back from Iraq and Afghanistan.”
Much work has been done in a year. The NACO has picked up the idea and run with it, Thomson says in praise. The idea is getting some traction outside Canada as well, Thomson says. For example, Winchester University in the U.K. has expressed interest.
“For me, the poetry chosen feels like we are going back in time,” says Abigail Richardson, who composed the music. “In Flanders Fields, we are walking in the grave stones. With the Owen, we are trying to raise a fallen soldier in France.”
Each poem has a different key and a different feel. And there are 14 different versions, including choir and orchestra, orchestra alone and choir alone, multilingual, with three different languages, and English only. The first full performance by choir and orchestra will be in Calgary.
“This piece had to be written to be played by high-end orchestras and community orchestras. I had to think about the level of the orchestral writing. For the choral part I had to be extremely aware of difficulty. Some performers will be kids. And it had to be interesting enough to satisfy the professionals who are doing it.”
First World War soldier and poet Wilfred Owen poses for a photo in his uniform. World War I left behind an extraordinary legacy of art, music literature and film. Among anti-war poems, few were so bitter, or indelible, as Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est.”
Handout photo,
Thomson seems dedicated to keep expanding the project.
“I am determined that the names of those who were killed be seen. I appreciate wreath laying and all other things that are happening, but I don’t want the names of the Canadians, the French, the Germans, the Belgians to be forgotten. I don’t know how we walk by, have a ceremony and not mention the names.
“I’ve had to turn down work. I’m not eating well. I’m owed. To keep it going financially we give up fees. We fundraise like mad. When people get interested it’s satisfying; when I get indifference …” But there are the moments that keep him going, such as a message from a lawyer in Toronto who donated some cash and sent a note of encouragement: ” ‘Because,’ he wrote, ‘it’s important, Robert.’
“When it gets dark I remember that.”
THE OTHER POEMS
Tu n’en reviendras pas toi by Louis Aragon
Déjà vous n’êtes plus que pour avoir péri
Tu n’en reviendras pas toi qui courais les filles
Jeune homme dont j’ai vu battre le coeur à nu
Quand j’ai déchiré ta chemise et toi non plus
Tu n’en reviendras pas vieux joueur de manille
Qu’un obus a coupé par le travers en deux
Pour une fois qu’il avait un jeu du tonnerre
Et toi le tatoué l’ancien légionnaire
Tu survivras longtemps sans visage sans yeux
On part Dieu sait pour où ça tient du mauvais rêve
On glissera le long de la ligne de feu
Quelque part ça commence à n’être plus du jeu
Les bonshommes là-bas attendent la relève
Roule au loin roule train des dernières lueurs
Les soldats assoupis que ta danse secouent
Laissent pencher leur front et fléchissent le cou
Cela sent le tabac la laine et la sueur
Comment vous regarder sans voir vos destinées
Fiancés de la terre et promis des douleurs
La veilleuse vous fait de la couleur des pleurs
Vous bougez vaguement vos jambes condamnées
Déjà la pierre pense où votre nom s’inscrit
Déjà vous n’êtes plus qu’un mot d’or sur nos places
Déjà le souvenir de vos amours s’efface
Déjà vous n’êtes plus que pour avoir péri
L’Adieu à la patrie by Luc Durtain
Cet homme fort, carré
Mais voûté, lent, de l’usure au cuir des joues
Et le regard alourdi parla paupière qui pèse,
Incertain dans ses frusques civiles d’il y a cinq ans, trop amples:
Il fait, au sol de la patrie, Un pas, le dernier…
Et, soudain, Il s’est rappelé tous ses pas suprêmes:
Celui qu’il fithors des siens,
Hors de lui-même, hors de la vie,
L’an quatorze, au seuil
De la caserne carrée comme un devoir;
Celui qu’il fit, mille, vingt mille
Fois de suite, par delà
Le bout de ses forces disjointes,
Jambes inégales, regard manchot,
Reins qu’écrasent les monts du sac
Et poitrine échappée, battante
Comme un oiseau, et bouche ouverte
Comme un poisson noyé dans l’air -à la
Relève du Mort-Homme, à la Relève des Hurlus, à Tahure;
Et ce pas tombé dans l’immense flamme
Subite, le choc, Puis l’obscur qui avait duré des semaines
Et où s’était peu à peu créé l’hôpital
-Ce dernier pas du temps où il fut allègre.
L’homme, aujourd’hui, avance le pied au delà du quai:
Et dans la moitié du pas il y a la France,
Dans l’autre moitié, l’élément Éternel, infini, la mer.
Ça n’est rien que pour une pêche au large,
Mais c’est la première fois depuis cinq ans
Qu’il quitte son pays, qu’il en est libre…
Il lui semble soudain qu’il part pour toujours.
Voilà. Les maisons du port
Reculent en lui faisant face: Il est si content qu’il s’en étonne
Qu’elles ne lui tournent pas le dos pour s’en aller plus vite.
Voilà les rochers debout: il leur trouve
De drôles de têtes, fâchées
De le voir partir, des têtes de gendarmes.
- “Vos papiers? ”
Il se tâterait presque.
Et il rit. Ah, mais oui, il part!
Il part comme le cri part de la poitrine.
Le coteau, face penchée,
Avec une longue barbe de pins qui descend
Et quatre galons de murs au manteau, Le regarde comme son commandant qui est mort.
Et ça fait qu’il lui semble que, derrière, Cette cime qui se détourne, c’est son propre père. Il part.
Derrière encore, crânes chevelus, Pelés, ou chauves, Toutes les têtes des ancêtres.
Elles se montrent l’une après l’autre
Les chaînes de montagnes comme des raisons; Elles tiennent ensemble et s’élèvent
Au dessus des apparences, en affirmant.
Mais, peu à peu, tout cela s’abaisse.
Qu’est-ce qui sort de lui? On dirait Que les vagues s’échappent de son âme,
Une cataracte de casques bleus
Qui repousse cette terre làbas, au loin.
Des vagues. Des vagues. Ça passe. Ça passe.
Et la patrie, là-bas, n’est plus qu’une poutre,
Et la patrie, là-bas, n’est plus qu’un cure-dents.
Et voilà qui viennent du large, Du ciel, du soleil, Des milliers, des milliers, Des mille de millions
De vagues brillantes, diamantées, Libres, libres comme des lumières. Elles dansent, elles chantent.
Il leur tend les bras et il pleure.
To the Soldiers of the Great War by Gerrit Engelke:
Rise up!
Out of trenches, muddy holes, bunkers, quarries!
Up out of mud and fire, chalk dust, stench of bodies!
Off with your steel helmets!
Throw your rifles away!
Enough of this murderous enmity!
Do you love a woman? So do I.
And have you a mother? A mother bore me.
What about your child? I too love children.
And the houses reek of cursing, praying, weeping.
Were you at ruined Ypres? I was there too.
At stricken Mihiel? I was opposite you.
I was there at Dixmuide, surrounded by floods, At hellish Verdun, in the smoke and the crowds;
Freezing, demoralised, in the snow, At the corpse-ridden Somme I was opposite you.
I was facing you everywhere, but you did not know it! Body is piled on body. Poet kills poet.
I was a soldier. I did my job. Thirsty, sick, yawning, on the march or on guard,
Surrounded by death and missing home – And you – were your feelings so unlike mine?
Tear open your tunic! Let’s see your bare skin; I know that old scar from 1915, And there on your forehead the stitched-up gash. But so you won’t think my pain is less, I open my shirt, here’s my discoloured arm! Aren’t we proud of our wounds, your wounds and mine?
You did not give better blood or greater force, And the same churned-up sand drank our vital juice. Did your brother die in the blast of that shell? Did your uncle or your classmate fall?
Does not your bearded father lie in his grave? Hermann and Fritz, my cousins, bled to death. And my young, fair-haired friend, always helpful and good, His home is still waiting, and his bed. His mother has waited since 1916, Where is his cross and his grave? Frenchmen, Whether from Bordeaux, Brest, Garonne; Ukrainian, Turk, Serb, Austrian; I appeal to all soldiers of the Great War – American, Russian, Britisher – You were brave men. Now throw away national pride. The green sea is rising. Just take my hand.
Futility by Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun
- Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds
– Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, – still warm, – too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?