Constance Hornung was the wife of the celebrated author, Ernest William Hornung, creator of Raffles, The Amateur Cracksman. She was the daughter of Charles Altamont Doyle and Mary Doyle and the sister of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes. Constance and Ernest were married at St. Edward's Roman Catholic Church in the district of St. George's, Hanover Square, London on Wednesday, 27th September, 1893. The groom was twenty seven and the bride twenty five. The couple had one son, Arthur Oscar, who was killed on 6th July, 1915 at Ypres.
FLANDERS' MEN AND BOYS
How can Flanders' men and boys
Of blood-mud channels and final joys
Have been sent down into the lowlands lows
To forever sleep in white-crossed rows.
How can one night of startled frights
Become a thousand startled starless nights
In a crèche of lonely huddled hearts
Among motherless hours and fatherless ramparts.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Turn sacred games with childhood toys
Into secret acts where death there settles
In crawling canals of deep red petals.
How can my son and even ours
Used only to light and sun-dipped showers
Be rained on with metal and poison extremes
Until veins are flushed with their loving dreams
How can Flanders' men and boys
Have charged over-the-top into hell's own void
As they rammed their fear into the back of their souls
And their minds and bodies were slammed with holes.
How can no-man's-land ever return
What it should never have taken and didn't earn
For the flooded fields did breathe again
But poppies aren't our boys and men.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Return to lips of normal noise
To arms and hips of quiet embrace
With ruptured minds and ruptured grace.
How can tables of homely chatter
Relate to tunnels and tins shattered
For caved-in bodies and caved-in minds
Pull down the tables and tear down the blinds.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Kick back the clock or rework the ploys
When a thousand growing nights and morns
Have been slashed by a million crowny thorns.
How can boys not sit with silent screams
And men not drink in violent dreams
As mates extend a knowing hand
While lovers crave to understand.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Reclaim their touch, their calm, their poise
For scars close over and scars retreat
But madmen chant and chant repeat.
And how can generals of this winless game
Be risen above the general shame
And retreat again to bunkers deep
To renew the egos which will damn our sleep.
Flanders' men and boys lie deep
In our flows of wake and fields of sleep
We can caress their courage and caress their fears
If we honour their spirit and reverence their tears.
Denis Higgins, 2000
FLANDERS' MEN AND BOYS
How can Flanders' men and boys
Of blood-mud channels and final joys
Have been sent down into the lowlands lows
To forever sleep in white-crossed rows.
How can one night of startled frights
Become a thousand startled starless nights
In a crèche of lonely huddled hearts
Among motherless hours and fatherless ramparts.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Turn sacred games with childhood toys
Into secret acts where death there settles
In crawling canals of deep red petals.
How can my son and even ours
Used only to light and sun-dipped showers
Be rained on with metal and poison extremes
Until veins are flushed with their loving dreams
How can Flanders' men and boys
Have charged over-the-top into hell's own void
As they rammed their fear into the back of their souls
And their minds and bodies were slammed with holes.
How can no-man's-land ever return
What it should never have taken and didn't earn
For the flooded fields did breathe again
But poppies aren't our boys and men.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Return to lips of normal noise
To arms and hips of quiet embrace
With ruptured minds and ruptured grace.
How can tables of homely chatter
Relate to tunnels and tins shattered
For caved-in bodies and caved-in minds
Pull down the tables and tear down the blinds.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Kick back the clock or rework the ploys
When a thousand growing nights and morns
Have been slashed by a million crowny thorns.
How can boys not sit with silent screams
And men not drink in violent dreams
As mates extend a knowing hand
While lovers crave to understand.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Reclaim their touch, their calm, their poise
For scars close over and scars retreat
But madmen chant and chant repeat.
And how can generals of this winless game
Be risen above the general shame
And retreat again to bunkers deep
To renew the egos which will damn our sleep.
Flanders' men and boys lie deep
In our flows of wake and fields of sleep
We can caress their courage and caress their fears
If we honour their spirit and reverence their tears.
Denis Higgins, 2000
Constance Hornung was the wife of the celebrated author, Ernest William Hornung, creator of Raffles, The Amateur Cracksman. She was the daughter of Charles Altamont Doyle and Mary Doyle and the sister of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of Sherlock Holmes. Constance and Ernest were married at St. Edward's Roman Catholic Church in the district of St. George's, Hanover Square, London on Wednesday, 27th September, 1893. The groom was twenty seven and the bride twenty five. The couple had one son, Arthur Oscar, who was killed on 6th July, 1915 at Ypres.
FLANDERS' MEN AND BOYS
How can Flanders' men and boys
Of blood-mud channels and final joys
Have been sent down into the lowlands lows
To forever sleep in white-crossed rows.
How can one night of startled frights
Become a thousand startled starless nights
In a crèche of lonely huddled hearts
Among motherless hours and fatherless ramparts.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Turn sacred games with childhood toys
Into secret acts where death there settles
In crawling canals of deep red petals.
How can my son and even ours
Used only to light and sun-dipped showers
Be rained on with metal and poison extremes
Until veins are flushed with their loving dreams
How can Flanders' men and boys
Have charged over-the-top into hell's own void
As they rammed their fear into the back of their souls
And their minds and bodies were slammed with holes.
How can no-man's-land ever return
What it should never have taken and didn't earn
For the flooded fields did breathe again
But poppies aren't our boys and men.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Return to lips of normal noise
To arms and hips of quiet embrace
With ruptured minds and ruptured grace.
How can tables of homely chatter
Relate to tunnels and tins shattered
For caved-in bodies and caved-in minds
Pull down the tables and tear down the blinds.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Kick back the clock or rework the ploys
When a thousand growing nights and morns
Have been slashed by a million crowny thorns.
How can boys not sit with silent screams
And men not drink in violent dreams
As mates extend a knowing hand
While lovers crave to understand.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Reclaim their touch, their calm, their poise
For scars close over and scars retreat
But madmen chant and chant repeat.
And how can generals of this winless game
Be risen above the general shame
And retreat again to bunkers deep
To renew the egos which will damn our sleep.
Flanders' men and boys lie deep
In our flows of wake and fields of sleep
We can caress their courage and caress their fears
If we honour their spirit and reverence their tears.
Denis Higgins, 2000
FLANDERS' MEN AND BOYS
How can Flanders' men and boys
Of blood-mud channels and final joys
Have been sent down into the lowlands lows
To forever sleep in white-crossed rows.
How can one night of startled frights
Become a thousand startled starless nights
In a crèche of lonely huddled hearts
Among motherless hours and fatherless ramparts.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Turn sacred games with childhood toys
Into secret acts where death there settles
In crawling canals of deep red petals.
How can my son and even ours
Used only to light and sun-dipped showers
Be rained on with metal and poison extremes
Until veins are flushed with their loving dreams
How can Flanders' men and boys
Have charged over-the-top into hell's own void
As they rammed their fear into the back of their souls
And their minds and bodies were slammed with holes.
How can no-man's-land ever return
What it should never have taken and didn't earn
For the flooded fields did breathe again
But poppies aren't our boys and men.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Return to lips of normal noise
To arms and hips of quiet embrace
With ruptured minds and ruptured grace.
How can tables of homely chatter
Relate to tunnels and tins shattered
For caved-in bodies and caved-in minds
Pull down the tables and tear down the blinds.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Kick back the clock or rework the ploys
When a thousand growing nights and morns
Have been slashed by a million crowny thorns.
How can boys not sit with silent screams
And men not drink in violent dreams
As mates extend a knowing hand
While lovers crave to understand.
How can Flanders' men and boys
Reclaim their touch, their calm, their poise
For scars close over and scars retreat
But madmen chant and chant repeat.
And how can generals of this winless game
Be risen above the general shame
And retreat again to bunkers deep
To renew the egos which will damn our sleep.
Flanders' men and boys lie deep
In our flows of wake and fields of sleep
We can caress their courage and caress their fears
If we honour their spirit and reverence their tears.
Denis Higgins, 2000
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