We gathered this morning on the Parade outside the Library to join many others in pausing to remember, together, those who have given their lives for our safety, and to give thanks for them. We gathered to give each other strength and to stand in support with those for whom this day is painful, through bereavement, memory or injury. We gathered to acknowledge a sacrifice given to preserve the freedom of others, and in doing all this present the basic human instinct for peace.
This year we also held the fears and uncertainty, hardship and loneliness, that we have all been through. We thought of those for whom this present era, coming out of lockdown, is tough. There is a hope-filled changelessness of this annual event – now 102 years old.
Sophia Eng, the Chaplaincy Assistant read two famous poems by Wilfred Owen that capture the futility and confusion of war. Wilfred Owen was a 1st world war poet, who was killed on 4th November 1918, just one week before peace. In the first poem - “Anthem for doomed youth”– Owen tells of the slaughter of men, like cattle – for whom there is formal memorial, and in the second Owen asks if all life is futile…
“Anthem for Doomed Youth”
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
"Futility"
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke 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?
As quiet descended over the Parade and Sophia’ words died away, Edward stepped forward and played the Last Post. The Parade, filled with staff and students standing quietly for the two-minute silence, joining thousands around the country, echoed to the final notes from the trumpet. During this time, we stood together – united in the moment - a community time to draw strength from each other.
The two minutes flowed in the Reveille and the words:
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.
(All) We will remember them.
And finally, Callum finished our Act of Remembrance with the poignant sound of the bagpipes. It was good once again to be able to mark this moment in time as part of a visible community.
Many, many thanks to Sophia for reading, Edward for playing the trumpet and Callum for playing the bagpipes.
Nigel
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