Pen as Sword - Social Commentary, The Inner Struggle

Take Up Our Quarrel with The Foe …

On November 10, 2016 the world lost another good one. Leonard Cohen died at the age of 82.

“Hallelujah”, Leonard Cohen, (1984)

We have rather failed in our commission, have we not?

In Flanders Fields

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.

by John McCrae, May 1915

Managers don’t take up quarrels, do they? Rather they just design and implement policy and manage same, whatever the policy may be.  Just following orders …  And has not Canada become a shining planetary example of a nation of managers in action. Are there any sleeping souls left at all in Flanders Fields?

For The Fallen

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.

Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.

“We will remember them.” Do we?  Do we really? Does our modern society even recognize the values and virtues which led the fallen to lay it all down for us? Really?



cdn-ddh-heavy-weather-87471.jpgI don’t recall ever meeting a manager at the sharp end. Even the Supply Bob was a sharpshooter. No room for managers at sea. Everyone works, everyone fights.