Other Men's Flowers: An Anthology of Poetry

I have loved this book since about the age of eighteen. My grandfather quoted from Jean Ingelow's The High Tide On the Coast of Linconshire. The occasion was the wedding of my parents...John and Elizabeth. My grandfather at their wedding reception apparently quoted the lines... A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath than my son's wife, Elizabeth. I have often wondered how he came to know the poem.

I have a hard back copy of this book. It is more than a book of poetry it is a book of life, love, conflict, courage and all things Human. It is an embodiment of those virtues that are innate in all Men and Women. It is not all English poetry, there are a few Yanks thrown in for good measure.

At 38yo now, I first found this as a paperback in my mother's books 20 years ago. It is now very definitely mine, I've kept it with permission. An army man, Lord Wavell proudly feels spiritual all the way through the anthology in his comments and editing. The content is the most surprising, consolidated & "popular with reasons" I've ever seen. All the classics are here, most of which Wavell could recite from memory. Everything: The owl & the pussycat get drunk on a dull opiate near a pleasuredome while keeping their heads when all around are losing theirs. Donne isn't in it but that's the only omission in the fun of reading it. Vast, diverse and often very funny, certainly beautiful.

The collection of poetry is, in Lord Wavell's words, every poem he remembered. All are written down as they come to his memory. The title, of course, is from Montaigne's essays-"These are other men's flowers, only the string that binds them is mine own." He commanded the British armies in the Middle East during World War II, and presumably jotted his memories down between battles. I believe it was published during that war, because I carried a copy with me in the Royal Air Force. Or did I? That may be a rear screen projection of events-my memory cannot in any way equal Archibald, Lord Wavell. The last quarter of the book comprises scraps of poems half remembered, but worthy of inclusion. I lost my copy a long time ago, so this is a memory of memories