No more glory - The stark despair of second world war poetry
by Cavan Wood
Why is the poetry of the First World War much better known than that of the Second World War? Perhaps the collective shock to the system of the First World War could never be repeated and its influence on the art that followed would never be as significant?
The 1920s had seen the evolution of poetry through new talents like T.S. Eliot. The war verse of Wilfred Owen and others had galvanised many people to exclaim that there must never be another war. There were mass demonstrations against war but, by 1939, it became inevitable.
The verse of the Second War was often more straightforward, showing the raw experience of people caught up in its events than those of the First. The poets felt themselves to be like reporters, to explain the emotions of war.
The obscure quotations of an Eliot poem were forsaken for a directness to connect the reader instantly with what was happening. There was terror that they were again in war, something so many poets had tried to stand against. Yet there was a belief, for many, that the evil of Nazism could not be ignored and must be tackled.
This article will look at two poets from the period.
Captain Keith Douglas became one of the most celebrated of poets of this period. Born in Tunbridge Wells, he had served in Egypt, being involved in the El Alamein campaign. On June 9th 1944, he was killed just three days after taking part in the D-Day invasion. Here is one of his poems:
Simplify me when I am dead
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
and simplify me when I'm dead.
As the processes of earth
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye
strip off the colour of the skin:
take the brown hair and blue eye
and leave me simpler than at birth,
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.
when hairless I came howling in
as the moon entered the cold sky.
Of my skeleton perhaps,
so stripped, a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.
so stripped, a learned man will say
"He was of such a type and intelligence," no more.
Thus when in a year collapse
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore
particular memories, you may
deduce, from the long pain I bore
the opinions I held, who was my foe
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.
and what I left, even my appearance
but incidents will be no guide.
Time's wrong-way telescope will show
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.
a minute man ten years hence
and by distance simplified.
Through that lens see if I seem
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,
substance or nothing: of the world
deserving mention or charitable oblivion,
not by momentary spleen
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.
or love into decision hurled,
leisurely arrive at an opinion.
Remember me when I am dead
and simplify me when I'm dead.
and simplify me when I'm dead.
The poem uses very direct language. There’s no resort to Latin, like Owen’s ‘Dulce et decorum est’. Douglas makes a very simple request if he dies in battle: do not create a great myth, do not make him more heroic than he was, tell the truth about who he was and what he experienced.
The pain of bereavement, and the need to feel that those in war were brave and selfless, should not lead the deceased to being seen for what they are not. Time will decay his body and now he needs to be remembered for what he was, not by distorted memories.
It is a brave, direct, poem that impresses –wars are not the province of the hero, but the ordinary, the most commonplace of people doing their duty. They deserve to be celebrated for who they are.
Timothy Corsellis was dead by the age of twenty. As a conscientious objector in the 1930’s, he joined the RAF following Dunkirk, but was to become horrified by Bomber Command’s policy to bomb civilians indiscriminately.
With an honourable discharge, he became a civilian ARP warden during the London Blitz for seven months in 1941, joining the Air Transport Auxiliary and dying shortly after in an air crash. This poem is inspired by what he saw as an ARP warden.
Dawn after the Raid
As a whisper in the darkness
As the hushing of the wind
As the rising of a salmon
When the water rims with ripples
Life moved laboriously over death.
As the programme seller in the audience
Blind to the passion on the stage
As the swimmer in a surging sea
As the Britisher in a foreign country
Life busied itself with death.
As the hushing of the wind
As the rising of a salmon
When the water rims with ripples
Life moved laboriously over death.
As the programme seller in the audience
Blind to the passion on the stage
As the swimmer in a surging sea
As the Britisher in a foreign country
Life busied itself with death.
The blue overalls and metal helmets
The lorries, one time used for coal,
The worried warden and the rescue worker
Hovered and hurried among the ruins.
The lorries, one time used for coal,
The worried warden and the rescue worker
Hovered and hurried among the ruins.
Under this pile of fallen masonry
Under those spillikins of beams
Where number thirty two lies shattered
There may be a body
Dig
For there may be a body.
Under those spillikins of beams
Where number thirty two lies shattered
There may be a body
Dig
For there may be a body.
Distorted corpse once breathed slum air
Lived in the grey dust where it died;
Is it for this that bending we strived
And fought in other’s blood and other’s sorrow
To reach these wretched mangled remains?
Is it for this that we ached in the darkness
Not knowing that nearby
Another house had fallen
To the blast of that same bomb.
Lived in the grey dust where it died;
Is it for this that bending we strived
And fought in other’s blood and other’s sorrow
To reach these wretched mangled remains?
Is it for this that we ached in the darkness
Not knowing that nearby
Another house had fallen
To the blast of that same bomb.
Sweat fell, we were not the strong and young
They were out training, preparing,
We are the best of those remaining
We are the mellow and the hardened
And though our backs are hard of bending
Under aloofness our souls bend rending
The sorrow out of the bereaved father’s breast
Tearing it out and holding it in our own hands
Adopting it to our own bodies
Caring for the children we had never seen
They were out training, preparing,
We are the best of those remaining
We are the mellow and the hardened
And though our backs are hard of bending
Under aloofness our souls bend rending
The sorrow out of the bereaved father’s breast
Tearing it out and holding it in our own hands
Adopting it to our own bodies
Caring for the children we had never seen
Sometimes we pray to be hardened and callous
But God turns a deaf ear
And we know hate and sorrow,
Intimately
And we do not mind dying tomorrow.
But God turns a deaf ear
And we know hate and sorrow,
Intimately
And we do not mind dying tomorrow.
The description of the destruction of the raid is again bold, cinematic: we feel that we are there. Having to sift through the rubble to find the bodies is a horror that the poet captures. This has become a regular event in war.
Notice the very shocking last verse: when people pray, they normally pray to become more sensitive to others, more aware of pain. Here, he is asking to become hardened to it. Yet God seems to be beyond being able to answer a prayer like that: they become more conscious of their hatred, sorrow, the despair which might mean they seek their own death.
We need to celebrate the poets of the Second World War much more – be they soldiers, air crew, survivors of the concentration camps and the Holocaust. They are witnesses to what happened. The evidence of poetry, with its rawness and its vividness is an important way of telling the truth, as vital as a photograph, a book or another way of giving testimony to the time.
As George Sanytana wrote, ‘Those who do not remember the past are doomed to replay it.’ This loss of memory of the war is beginning to characterise our times. This will wound us. An obsession with the past can cripple us, but a loss of memory can make us blind to the evils that can destroy us all. Poetry invites us to remember that powerful truth.
The wisdom of words from Cavan Wood
Cavan is a well sought after writer, teacher and speaker based in Sussex of over thirty years experience. He has written about religious, moral, cultural and political themes , having written or contributed chapters to over twenty books published by Bloomsbury, Oxford University Press , The Bible Reading Fellowship and Hodder amongst others. He is interested in politics, literature, cinema and is a leader in his local church. He is married with a wife, two children and a somewhat surly cat called Chloe.
Edited by Michael Taylor Equinox partners
No comments:
Post a Comment