Tyranny of the Poppy?!

I have read several news articles recently that address the "tyranny of the poppy". Whilst I have sympathy with the view that no one should feel compelled to wear one on or around Remembrance Sunday, I do take offence at some of the 'reasons' given. Yes, originally it did refer to the sacrifice made during the First World War, but that does not nullify the relevance to any warfare since. No, it does not 'glorify' war nor only encourage remembrance of the victors - who can even use 'victor' when you see the roll call of the dead? Nor is it's message confined to the military, nor does it exclude certain sections of the population.

Is it really too much to reserve one day of the year for considering the failure that war is without such nonsense?

Sighting a poppy makes me think firstly of  my paternal grandfather. A man who lied about his age in order to join his pals in enlisting in the army as an infantryman during the first World War. A man who re-enlisted without waiting to be called from the reserve list during WW2 because he did not want to see a repeat of the poor leadership that saw so many die needlessly in the first. A man whose medals read like a battle list of both wars. A man who managed to return from both wars with his body largely intact when so many did not.

My second thought is the recall how chilled I was when I was first told that there are areas of Europe upon which crops still can not be grown due to the level of iron contamination in the soil from the blood of the fallen.

My third is nausea from the images recalled upon hearing the one of my uncles was amongst the first Allied troops to enter Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. What thoughts must he have had as he peered out of his armoured vehicle?

At some point the grainy images of the Falklands enter my head; troops marching, shells landing on ships, the eloquence of soldiers and civilians recalling events to reporters risking all to tell their story. The lump in my throat as I watched the footage of families welcoming their husbands and fathers home in Portsmouth.

I also recall all those who stay at home whilst their loved ones place themselves in harms way. I feel their anxiety, their sorrow, their joy, their sacrifice.

Papaver rhoeas

Dismembered by land mine

Vapourised by bomb blast

Lungs dissolved by gas

Crushed via drone strike

Gang-raped to bring her man to heel

Tortured for believing

Shot for cowardice

Derided for pacifism

...

How can anyone say the blood red of the poppy discriminates when war does not? Ed Poynter says it well in his modern war poem, "Equality in Afghanistan".

Patrolling an Afghan Poppy Field.

Equality in Afghanistan

I wait. Impassive. Neutral. Buried.

The goat ambles. Hungrily. Confidently. Hoping.
The child dashes. Clumsily. Warily. Hoping.
The woman steps. Wearily. Warily. Hoping.
The soldier treads. Softly. Warily. Hoping.

I wait. Impassive. Neutral. Buried.
They’re all the same to me...

Ed Poynter