This week, on November 11, Americans celebrated Veterans Day in honor of all those who have served in the Armed Forces. The holiday was originally named “Armistice Day” because it commemorated the end of World War I, but was later amended to Veterans Day to honor those who served in any war or era.

Our northern neighbors still call it Armistice Day, however, and mark the occasion similarly. One difference is that many Canadians will wear a red poppy (either a real one or just a pin) as a symbol to remember the fallen. The use of the poppy as a symbol comes from a poem named “In Flanders Fields” by Canadian poet John McCrae, who served in World War I as a surgeon.

Poppies are also commonly worn across the pond as well, where Brits call the occasion Remembrance Day. For this week, I chose a poem by English poet Wilfred Owen, who served in World War I. Most of Owen’s works were published posthumously, because he was killed in action during a British assault on the German-held Sambre Canal (located in France) on the Western Front. He was only 25 years old, a year older than me right now. And the sadder part is that his mother was informed of his death a week later, right on November 11--Armistice Day.

Dulce et decorum est, Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) 

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. 

Andrea Gutierrez is the managing editor of the Bryan County News.