A daughter, and Veterans Day: A poem for both

Those who’ve followed the news here at FP for a while know that my wife and I were expecting a daughter.  I am glad (and exhausted) when I tell you she arrived on Friday in the wee hours of the morning.  We are all tired and learning our new roles and doing our best to care for each other, so blogging will proceed at goodness knows what pace in the short term.  I like writing here, and I think someday she will like reading what I wrote, looking back on these days when her father was so young, so sure of his opinions.  And I have a novel that is at least plausibly about young parenthood, so I should return to it.  For now, I hope I will be forgiven a little radio silence.

And it is, again, Veterans Day—a day when I recognize the horrors of war and lament the dead, a day when I both remind myself of the ugliness of the human condition and am simultaneously inspired by the ability of the noblest side of the human spirit to thrive even in war’s darkness.  I have written about this in the past, and what I think it says about my country that November 11th is a day for car sales and undelivered mail (who sends letters, anymore?) and maybe a few school kids at an assembly that’s more about rah-rahing and flag-waving and the glory of war than it is about the day’s true meaning.  You can read them, if you like: 2010 is here, and 2011 is here, and last year’s entry here.  This year, all I can add is that the birth of a daughter enhances rather than diminishes all my feeling about war and death—my admiration for those who have borne the battle (many of them unwillingly) and how they have found ways to express humanity thereby rather than giving in to depravity, and my dejection when I think of how many nations, mine included, have sent thousands if not millions to die for no good purpose.  So here, in a poem that expresses just a bit of all those sentiments, is a poem from the Great War, the war whose ending gives us today as a holiday—this is T. M. Kettle, an Irishman who went willingly into the fray because he believed he was working for a free Europe and a free Ireland, who died leading his men at the Battle of the Somme and whose body was never found.  This is the poem he wrote to the daughter he never came home to: “To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God”.

“In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your Mother’s prime.
In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
You’ll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
To die with death. And oh! they’ll give you rhyme
And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
And some decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,—
But for a dream, born in a herdsman’s shed,
And for the secret Scripture of the poor.”

English: Thomas_M._Kettle_memorial_in_St._Step...

A memorial to Thomas Kettle in a Dublin park. Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nothing I could say could add meaning to this, nor could any detractor diminish what these words move in me. Today I remember with sorrow and with joy Lieutenant Thomas Kettle of the Irish Volunteers, and the daughter Elizabeth who never knew his face. May God bring them together in glory. May God forgive the human hatred and violence that parted them.

Poetry Friday: Return to 1943

It’s been a while since I was in the poetry of the year of my current Pulitzer novel, but since I am in fact rolling along through Dragon’s Teeth again, I thought I should try putting myself back in the right mindset, and that requires me to get my head back into the 1940s.  There’s been no recent post on Sinclair’s novel, of course, but that’s just because all the things I really feel like saying about the chapters I’ve been reading are things I said in my last post.  Once I have enough new ideas to offer (or enough witty rephrasings of the stale ideas that are sticking around), there will be a post.  In the meantime, I do keep reading, and I pause on Friday for a poem from 1943.

I’m back to Richard Church, whose Twentieth-Century Psalter I used for a PF post earlier this year.  Church’s poetry is exactly what you might expect from a minor English poet during and immediately after the Blitz—ruminations on violence and survival, reflections on these “metal beasts of the air” that rain down death, etc.  The fact that much of it is predictable does not make it less affecting, or less effective at evoking what it felt like to live through war.  Here, as the fall starts and the news has been full again of war talk—a war that, no matter what Russia or the United States accomplish, will go on in Syria for the foreseeable future—I thought it would be good to return to Church’s psalter again, at least one more time (if not more) to hear what an Englishman says to us from the depths of the 20th Century’s signature struggle.  This is the “psalm” he has appointed for Morning on the 22nd day of the month, which I am recklessly offering for your consideration here on the evening of the 13th:

“I have been hearing on the radio
News of mid-century battles; how the tide
Of blood soaks through the sand; how men have died
In the desert. Could three generations know
More bitterly than we how horrors grow,
And how the microphone has multiplied
Each village tragedy, made it worldwide?
A maniac’s at my ear wherever I go.

Whoso is wise will ponder on these things,
Repudiate omniscience of sound
And let the coming day bring what it brings.
Meanwhile there’s much to do to break some ground
Against to-morrow’s famine, and to plant
Enough to meet a deafened neighbour’s want.”

Church’s sonnet—yes, I know, I use too many of them for Poetry Friday, but I find it wonderful to consider how flexible and various the form can be—takes as its subject something fairly prosaic: the chatter of the radio bringing news of the war, seemingly specifically the North African campaign.  This was the first real opportunity for Britain to be on the offensive, and much of the news from the desert was of victory, the small triumphs that heralded the turning point of the war.  And yet there isn’t a speck of exultation in the poem.  Church doesn’t hear news of victory—just death.

There’s an innocence to his poem, isn’t there?  He wonders if three generations could understand all the pain he’s having to hear, and attributes it to the power of the microphone, the ability to broadcast around the world so that particular sufferings become general.  John Donne may have thought that “any man’s death diminishes me” but in the 17th Century he only had to reckon with the burden of local death—Church staggers under the weight of the world’s corpses, narrated to him unendingly as though some unstable mind is following him down the street, cataloging horrors as he goes.  And we can only shake our heads at how easy it must be for him—don’t we?  He didn’t have 24/7 news channels blaring in stores and airports, an Internet full of Youtube videos of massacres and chemical weapons attacks, the oppression not merely of voices but of images of war and tragedy.  And yet I think there’s also a side of this in which we are the innocents: we have grown up surrounded by all this, and can be numb to it in ways he couldn’t.  We’ve seen special effects movies full of fake death, played videogames where the body counts climb…I’m not saying we aren’t affected by the televised carnage from the real world but it seems somehow remote from us, doesn’t it?  We’ve learned how to steel ourselves against it.  But Church grew up in a very different world, and I wonder if he has the ability to “shut off” his compassion as effectively as we can, or if the hypnotic sadness of the radio reached him in a way I will never really understand.

I was thinking about sound today, weirdly, before I read this poem—I was commenting to my wife how odd it is that she’s scheduled for two medical procedures next week (a non-stress test for the baby, and an ultrasound) that both involve sound waves.  In one case, the sound will be used to get the child moving; in the other, it will almost magically be translated into lifelike images on a screen.  I was marveling at how versatile we can be with sound, like the Doctor twirling his sonic screwdriver, merrily fixing the world with it.  And so it was a little strange but also a good, fresh thought to face Church’s rejection of sound, since at the turn of the sonnet from octet to sestet, he breaks away from the radio and turn simply to the day around him.  To the light falling on a broken earth, and Church picking up spade and seed to plant again.  And not just for himself—in the poem’s last irony, sound here has overwhelmed his neighbor in a quite different way, the shock of shells from the bombing blowing out his hearing and leaving him more dependent than before.

It’s a strangely deep poem for something so brief and seemingly straight-forward.  In a far less didactic approach than some of the other psalms in this collection, Richard Church here simply unpacks the idea of sound in an England at war—how sound has turned against humanity both in active hostility (the sound of bombs blasting away a man’s ability to hear) and in a much more subtle manner (the radio is full of the voices of his friends, not his enemies, and yet what it reports makes Church deeply sad).  It seems to me a useful reminder of how poisonous violence can be, how it taints what it touches.  Church’s century taught us this lesson.  So did the centuries before it.  Sometimes I despair of us ever learning it, though, and yet this last week the voices on the radio are suddenly optimistic.  I hope it lasts.

Poetry Friday: Poetry 180

The start of the semester has everything buzzing at school—it’s a nice feeling, even though it’s also exhausting.  Today in particular, despite all the university trappings around me, my mind was drifting back to the days when I taught in a public high school: a former student dropped by (very unexpectedly, given that I taught him in Washington but I now work in Illinois) just to see me and wave before rushing off to the airport for home, and later in the day I chatted a little with a new colleague who also once taught in the public schools, and we agreed that some of this start-of-year exhaustion feels very familiar, the bone-tired teacher getting home at the end of the day feeling both drained and happy at how much has been done.  So it set me to thinking about Poetry Friday in the light of all this, and I realized I’d never acknowledged or commented on one of the better things I think has happened for poetry in the last decade—a school-focused project spearheaded by the Library of Congress called Poetry 180.  The notion is a simple one—for each of the 180 days of the typical American school year, there’s a poem that teachers are encouraged to share or use somehow.  Generally brief, accessible, memorable, and thought-provoking, the idea is that starting on the 1st day of the year, there’s a poem that potentially every schoolchild in the country is pondering, talking about in class, mentioning to their parents over dinner, etc.  The reality falls short of the ideal, of course (when doesn’t it?), but I still think it’s an attractive notion, and one that has the ability to help revive poetry’s place in our culture and our everyday lives a little, if we let it.

So today (and perhaps again, off and on) I’ll simply share what I think of as “today’s poem” from 180 and talk about it a little—it was the 10th day of the semester for me today, and for many other students in my city and elsewhere, so let’s have a look at the 10th poem from Poetry 180, William Stafford‘s “At the un-national monument along the Canadian border“:

“This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.

Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed—or were killed—on this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.”

Stafford was born in the Midwest, but he spent most of his adult life and career in the place I lived most of my life, the Pacific Northwest, where he taught at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, and lived out his days until his death at his home in Lake Oswego, Oregon.  This brief, beautiful poem is (has to be) a reference to the border between my home state and British Columbia.  It is also, for me, always associated with the Peace Arch, and the parks that surround it on both sides, where the major interstate highway crossing into Canada passes on its way from Seattle and Bellingham up to Vancouver, B.C.  I have always loved it, and Stafford captures the loveliness of this borderland here in an almost perfect economy of words, starting with the curious adjective “un-national” to acknowledge the curiosity of this structure built intentionally on two countries’ soil in honor of their shared respect for each other.

So many lovely (and awful) poems have been written about battlefields and the grass marked with blood, some in praise of death with honor, death for freedom, and some in horror at the meaninglessness, the pointlessness of this waste of human life.  And so Stafford can afford to be so simple and direct here—this is “the field where the battle did not happen, / where the unknown soldier did not die”.  It’s like an undoing of history, a tape on rewind—the image of the unknown soldier returning home to his family to live and grow old and be known is moving.  The grass here is not bleeding but united.  Yes, I know, I attach the Peace Arch to this poem even though Stafford says that “no monument stands” here—I don’t know how to explain the line.  Perhaps he is thinking of another place along this border, but for me it’s so hard not to see the arch as I read.  Maybe I interpret him to mean something very technical here—monuments commemorate people or events, but the Peace Arch commemorates an absence, in some ways, of these things.  It is an ode not to any one person or moment, but to the sustained willingness of two nations to stand in friendship beside each other.  There is nothing heroic about the arch, in that respect—it does not make wild the blood, it cannot be abused by politicians in jingoistic speeches, it will not serve as a rallying point for the vigilante or the demagogue.  Perhaps I misread him.  If so, he is referring to the rest of the border stretching east for the Cascades and, beyond them, the Rockies — the long open space, largely unfenced, including towns that straddle the border so that Canadians walk into America to buy groceries or post a letter, and vice versa.

I love the tranquility of the second stanza—the quiet of the seabirds holding themselves in place on the breeze or zipping from country to country, the quiet of a soil untroubled by violence or murder, the peace of the place so quiet, in fact, that its name all but disappears and is forgotten.  We may murmur “Gettysburg” at times, or “Pearl Harbor”, “D-Day”, “9/11″, all these dark days—they’re rallying cries, times and spots we can never let go of.  There are no such handles on the borderlands he’s talking about: no ominous label hovering and demanding our attention.  I’m grateful to Stafford for this quiet, today: a poem that refreshes and inspires a little hope.  I wonder if it worked that in any child’s mind today, if a teacher used this to ask questions about peace and war, about nations and struggles.  Poetry has this kind of enduring power, at its best, and I’m glad the LOC is still working to keep it fresh in our ears and eyes.

English: The Peace Arch on the US-Canada Borde...

The International Peace Arch, in Blaine, Washington, and Surrey, British Columbia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An American walking north into Peace Arch State Park sees emblazoned on the arch this motto: “Children of a common mother”.  A Canadian walking south into Peace Arch Provincial Park sees this: “Brethren dwelling together in unity”.  This September, maybe more than most months, I hope that for the nations—not just these two devoted friends, but all nations.  War is easy.  Peace is hard.  But if we remember who we are—all of us, us children of a common mother—it is easier to build.

Poetry Friday: 1943, part 3

In perusing the books of poetry issued in 1943 that grace the shelves of my library—librarianship has its advantages, especially for the literary blogger—I stumbled into an unfamiliar title and poet.  After skimming it, I thought the project interesting enough, and revealing enough about life in that year, to select a poem from the work to share today.  Richard Church was a minor English poet of the mid-20th Century, a man who wrote as a hobby until his late 30s and then dove into journalism, poetry, novel writing, and even a little autobiography to pay the bills from there on out.  In 1943, he brought out a small collection of poetry called Twentieth Century Psalter.  Modeled after the psalters of the Middle Ages, and structured as though these were poems to be used liturgically, like in the daily office at a monastery, the poems speak as bluntly and humanly as the Hebrew poetry preserved in the Tanakh’s book of Psalms.  After a dedicatory preface, acknowledging King David (the traditionally credited author of much of the Psalms) and suggesting that he was a “modern man”, Church simply presents pairs of poems assigned to each day of a thirty-day month—”The First Day: Morning” and “The First Day: Evening”—implicitly offering them as a reading to be added to Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer (service maybe still most widely known by their ancient names of Matins and Vespers).  The poems are not particularly sacred, though, or at least they are certainly not mild little pieties, as they turn their attention instead to the grim realities of life in an embattled England, a landscape of bomb craters and evacuated children and a resilient people enduring a modern war.  I thought that it might be best, here on the first day of the month of March, to just take what he’s assigned us this evening.  So, this is a poem by Richard Church, entitled “The First Day: Evening”:

“The instruments of death throughout the world;
They are the child’s desire, the young man’s training.
Women are forging them, by night and day.
Civilization cowers; bombs are raining
Upon the ripening corn; cities are hurled
Into the past, the Babylonian clay.

Some ancient god of wrath might look on this,
And, mumbling in his beard of human folly,
Call down a dozen plagues for punishment.
To-day, only a critical melancholy,
Self-conscious from the very soul’s abyss,
Warns us what follows when our rage is spent.

There have been many gods; there has been one.
All gods, and one, by many a name and token,
Are living still, are gathered in my brain,
A memory of duty, of vows broken,
A quiet conviction of what must be done
To build the broken cities up again.

The city and the cornfield; these are set
At history’s extremes. Between them lies
The story of the gods. Our art and science
No longer feature hell and paradise.
But still the ancient longing and regret
Govern our actions; still the old defiance.

The old defiance! It was this that first
Snatched at the fire and let destruction loose.
Defiance dealt the unpolitical blow,
Blundered in strength, mistook the best for worst,
And shattered adoration with abuse.
Defiance of what? Ah, still we do not know.”

Church—and yes, it occurs to me to that, consciously or unconsciously, his name may play a role in his desire to deal with psalms and liturgy—offers a poem that strikes me as very 1943, and movingly so.  The war is beginning to turn again the Axis powers, but no confidence can really be there yet for a man who’s heard the crump of bombs from an underground shelter, or seen the boys straggle back from Dunkirk.  So he opens the poem with the image of weaponry and how these “instruments of death” are ubiquitous—children imagine them as toys, soldiers train, women toil in factories to build them.  Do you think this is England or Germany he’s thinking of?  Is he envisioning the machine-like society that raises up these lethal tools to threaten his nation, or the machine-like society his nation must become to defend itself?  Both seem plausible readings to me.  There’s something very moving about the end of that stanza—we often use phrases like “bomb them back to the Stone Age”, but I can see it happening in Church’s words.  The debris in some parts of London must have seemed like a Near Eastern tel, the great heaps of pot-sherds on which a new city would rise—but whose city?

There’s something like Thomas Hardy inserted into in the second stanza—a poet wishing he could believe in a vengeful god—although in this case it’s not Hardy’s depression, but Church’s righteous anger and desire for justice and retribution, that fuels the dream.  The stanza, honestly, feels very allusive here, since he’s building in some ways on the work of English poets from a previous generation or two, like Matthew Arnold‘s “Dover Beach” which laments the loss of faith and hope in a world given over to these new scientific ideas.  And something about the final phrase “when our rage is spent” reminds me of John Milton’s famous sonnet “When I consider how my light is spent” that meditates on his blindness and his willingness to serve God.  There are layers here of three centuries of English poets struggling with belief, with the question of whether God is there above the clouds somewhere, and with the question of what we all will do if we have only ourselves and our world for consolation.

That’s what makes the third stanza really interesting to me—the way Church surprises us a few times as he turns it one way and then the other.  He brings up the images of polytheism and monotheism, seemingly acknowledges their validity, and then steps back a little—these gods live, but only in his brain.  And what resides there beside them?  Are these the modern gods—our sense of duty (to ourselves? to each other?), vows we know we have broken and will break?  What is that quiet conviction that Church has, and what does he think must be done to rebuild?  It’s hard for me to see whether that conviction is as ephemeral and imaginary to him as this panoply of gods are, or whether he really believes it….I think he does have that conviction, but hasn’t the poem undermined any reason for him to feel that confidence?  Maybe conviction and duty are all someone can turn to (other than madness) in the face of these broken cities.

And then the camera pans back again and the view sweeps out to all of human civilization—something that, in the 1940s, probably did look very simply like a march from the cornfield to the city, from one end of history to the other.  “Between them lies the story of the gods.”  But it’s our story also.  So Church is telling us something about ourselves—in part it’s really clear to me, because he’s so direct about how the “old defiance” survives even if talk of Heaven and Hell, of reward and judgment, has more or less passed out of “polite society”.  But in part it’s not clear, simply because I don’t think Heaven and Hell have totally walked off the stage (for one thing, how could he know then that in 3 years the world would learn of Auschwitz, of Treblinka, of Chelmno, these scars left in the wake of war, so abhorrent that we would revive an old word, “holocaust”, to capture the magnitude of the evils done).  And I think the stanza anyway is asking us to see more than that: he’s given us a very visual metaphor to work with, the city and the cornfield extended out in front of us, and the space between, and I think we’re meant to look at it and ask ourselves what we see.  What is all this for, and what has it gotten us?  A fair question any day, but maybe especially fair from the perspective of London during the Blitz.

And that ambivalence, that uneasiness, persists in the final stanza—the “old defiance” lingers on here, and now I wonder what it really signifies.  Fire, that critical human invention, here is a result of this defiance, and yet its only purpose seems hostile and violent.  Defiance brings harm where it could have brought health, breaks the old icons without understanding the new world it makes, deals “the unpolitical blow” (a phrase I confess I do not entirely understand in context).  And what, he asks us, are we defying anyway?  We do not know.  But what does he mean by that?  Is it that human defiance is rejecting the old faiths, but that we don’t understand them?  Or simply that, because a lot of people now doubt God’s existence, it’s hard for them to “defy” someone they don’t believe is there?  There’s not much old about that kind of defiance anyway—it’s a modern impulse—so maybe I’m misreading it entirely, and really he’s talking about something else….the “original sin” of ambition or pride, perhaps?  I am unsure.

What I do like about all this is that it does operate just like a psalm ought to—challenging, heartfelt, obscure.  If it was read in a real prayer service, a priest or minister could really chew on it for a while: who are humans, really, and where is God in England in 1943?  What are we doing with our lives and what will it mean?  How can we (Can we?) ever escape these old patterns, the circle of defiance and destruction that more or less characterizes a lot of human endeavor?  I may possibly come back to Church if I’m still reading 1943′s Pulitzer novel at the end of the month: I wonder if this poem is intended to raise questions that he really means to wrestle with himself by the last few days of the month, or if he’s just opening doors he has no intention of closing.  In any case, the anthology is an interesting idea—one another poet could easily steal here in the 21st Century, and maybe someone should—and if it’s in a library near you, I suggest you pick it up and give it a look.

Poetry Friday: 1943, part 2

One of the nice things about inching my forward through 20th Century poetry is that I get to keep revisiting old favorites, poets who gain maturity each time I find them (this aids some, and works against others).  Here in 1943, I get to jump into a slim little volume called New Poems, a brief collection of what Dylan Thomas, the Welsh genius, had been working on in the early 1940s.  This is Dylan’s 4th appearance here on a Poetry Friday, and so it’s time to delve just a little deeper, I think, than the man’s most famous poems.  I’ll admit at the outset that what makes him a genius also makes him sometimes challenging to read, but I’ve selected a poem that I, at least, feel I can wrestle with somewhat successfully, and I hope you find a lot to like about it.  This is a poem entitled “Among Those Killed in the Dawn Raid Was a Man Aged One Hundred”:

“When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshoots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.

Dig no more for the chains of his grey haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade’s ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from that common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun’s right hand.”

Dylan brings the realities of war in a besieged Britain to the surface here, in a poem that’s as bluntly and plainly titled as his perhaps-more-famous “A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London” which I’ve reflected on before.  Unlike a lot of his work, then, we get to begin with our bearings well in hand—we know the situation, and we have no need to ask who the “he” is who appears almost immediately.  This is where I think Dylan’s power is most effective—when he restrains his wild menagerie of images just enough to turn these lines out that are direct enough to land a blow.  The morning comes to the city, seemingly an indication of hope and survival, and then out of nowhere this aged man “put on his clothes and stepped out and he died”.  And then the rest of the poem is Dylan urging the poem on at the highest speed he can risk, letting the horses run a little wild in places (and unloading phrases that are almost impossible to make rational sense of) and then raining them in enough to keep us aware of the situation and what he means to say.

There are images that almost seem to possess Dylan Thomas at times—they surface again and again in poems written one after the other, as though he cannot quite capture the image in his head, or else the image is taking over his art.  The use of keys and locks is one of those images in New Poems, and so I wonder what the presence of that image means here: I get the impression, in this context, of our defenselessness against this kind of raw violence.  No locked front door could protect him; indeed, the locks themselves, these sturdy metal structures that are symbolic of security, fly apart in the urgent power of the blast.  The image swarms up to and surrounds that sad image of the old man dying “where he loved on the burst pavement stone”, the whole familiar scene of his home and his block turning into an altar, or a tomb.  And there, packed in among these images, is another of Dylan’s favorite images—the association of death and the dead with “grains” (something he does also in the poem about the child killed by fire in London), these seeds that lie in wait for some kind of rebirth.  And then there’s something lovely about the way Dylan weaves these images together in the next few lines, as that familiar old pavement, broken under the blast, becomes personified—we should tell the street, he says, of the old man’s glorious end.  Because it does seem suddenly glorious, as that aging body “stopped a sun”, a power that seems almost divine, and out of that shattered form the shoots of spring, the grains that will grow, come bursting along with that fire that consumes.

And then he executes the turn (yes, once again, we are inside a sonnet with another old master), the shift in tone from the octet that established our scene to the sestet that will change the poem somehow (teach us? surprise us?).  And what are we told?  Do not seek the old man out—let him go, it seems to say, because the moment his blood struck the ground, it called out to Heaven.  There is an assembly gathered now invisible, waiting for the ring of the spade and the fall of earth that will release him from these chains.  And what is “that common cart” we are to protect him from?  I’m not quite sure—there are associations there for me with the carts of the dead from plague-infected villages, or the dismal poverty of medieval serfs or squalid Victorian street merchants.  I can’t quite tell why Dylan wants him protected from whatever this is.  It seems to me though that, on some level, if we can protect the old man here at the last, that will allow this startling beauty to emerge at the end of the poem.  The morning is soaring now on “the wings of his age”—in dying, he has given something back to the world that animates it, surges the dawn’s light onwards.  Who are those hundred storks, then?  Emblematic of the children entering the world to renew it?  Or simply the years of his life, flown now to some more wondrous realm?  Whatever it is, it strikes me as optimistic and confident—a poem about death that is determined to end in hope.

I’ll admit, as much as I find a lot of beauty in the poem, I think it’s ultimately a little ambiguous, or at least I’m not totally sure I know how we’re supposed to take it.  The old man’s rebirth may be a more personal assurance—Dylan Thomas’s obsession with the ideas of resurrection and reincarnation (which reappear in other poems of his) taking this one death and calming us with the certainty that the 100 years of life ended in that bomb’s blast are not all there is for the man (and, by extension, for us).  But I see at least some indications that this may be a larger statement about societal survival, something important to all of Great Britain at the time: the old man passes and the block is destroyed, but the street survives and it is time for us to turn our thoughts to the living and to the future (again, possibly as symbolized by the storks?).  Regardless, it’s a poem that reminds me of Dylan Thomas’s power as a writer, and as I weave these images in with images I see elsewhere in his poetry, I think I get closer to an understanding of what all his art may have been driving at.  I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of him here on the blog.

A poem for Veterans Day

The body of the Unknown Soldier chosen by Serg...

The body of the Unknown American Soldier chosen to represent the fallen in World War I is loaded on a train in France. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As is my custom, each November 11th I honor the armistice by sharing a poem by a soldier of the Great War—World War I—the war that gave birth to this minor holiday, whether feast or fast I cannot tell.  In my country, the United States, it is, generally speaking, a day for hurrahs, for camouflage and crisp salutes, for sincere appreciation of the soldier and the veteran as patriots.  This is not a bad thing, of course, but it always feels to me incomplete—I think servicemen and servicewomen more than deserving of thanks and praise for their dedication.  But today, I think, should be about more than that.  It should be a day to reflect on the lasting sorrow of war, a day in which we resolve to do our part to blot out this human stain from the future of the earth.  In other lands more touched by World War I, November 11th is such a day—in Canada, with solemnity the wreaths are laid at cenotaphs, and newscasters talk in hushed voices about the Somme and Verdun, about those who fell in hope of a homecoming that was never realized.  I am sure similar public observance carries the day in England, in France, in Germany, and all the other nations who hoped in 1918 that humanity had purged its great blood-lust in one disastrous sacrifice of a generation of young men.  That hope may be foolish or vain, but some of us carry it still.  This is text from the War Requiem written by Benjamin Britten–it is adapted from a poem by Wilfred Owen, an English soldier who died at the age of 25 on November 4th, 1918.  Had he lived one more week, he would have reached the war’s end.  How many others were slaughtered, just as needlessly?  This is an adaptation of his poem, “Parable of the Old Men and the Young”:

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenched there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so,
but slew his son,—
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

How many generations will be asked to learn this lesson?  And how many brave men and women, in faithful service to their country, have we sacrificed on an altar of our own choosing?

Rest eternal grant them, O God.  Let light perpetual shine upon them.

Poetry Friday: 1939 (part 4)

Perhaps the most reliable presence here at Poetry Friday (due to the era in which she writes, her prolific output, and my admiration for her best stuff) is Edna St. Vincent Millay, and 1939 won’t be an exception to that trend.  My attention returns again to the poetry of the war, and in perusing a collection Millay published in 1939, I found a poem I feel merits some pondering.  So, without further ado, from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Huntsman, What Quarry?, this is the second sonnet in the series “From a Town in a State of Siege”:

“Well, we have lived so far; we are alive;
War is a way of living. If today
We die, we have to do that anyway
Sometime. It’s not so bad, once you contrive
To make a home of it; we do not thrive,
Yet here we are, at least,—no place to stay,
A place to stop in, though—and we can say
Hello to friends; and I have learned to drive.

The worst is being hated, and to hate;
Perhaps if it were hurricane or flood
That dragged us from our beds, we might await
The shock, the twisted wreckage and the mud
With lighter hearts, that being not man, but fate…
And only friendly dogs to lap our blood.”

There’s a casual tone to the poem that I liked immediately—Millay at her worst is over-wrought and uses 16th century exclamations (like “O thou wretch!” etc.) to excess, and so the opening lines caught my eye right away as an example of the plain-spoken style she finds when she’s at her best, generally.  Millay is also usually at her best when considering the two great obsessions of her life—love and death—and a blunt look at war seems to me to suit them nicely.  Millay’s pacifism has already been explored briefly here at Following Pulitzer, but I wondered how it would sound when dealing with the specific world of 1939, and not the abstraction of war as defined by a dictionary.

The ambiguity in her phrases is one of the things I love about her—the number of senses I can make of the line “War is a way of living” is a good example.  Whether Millay is talking about the city’s acceptance of war as the new reality, or about how the nations seem to have accepted war as the way to survive, or about how human beings can adopt a warlike attitude as a way of getting through their day…any and all of these add something to the poem for me.  I am intrigued by what it means to “make a home of it”, “it” seeming to mean “death”—is this about accepting the imminence of death?  Something like a stage in the grieving process for the person about to die?  Or am I missing something there?  I wonder.  The temporary nature of this city—a place not to stay but to “stop in”—reminds me of images of Purgatory, or the banks of the river Styx.  It ties in with some of the images I remember from Eliot’s poetry after World War I.  There’s something ominous that is only barely hidden under the simple and almost banal words and phrases that Millay uses to describe their world.

Maybe the best example of this is the line about Millay learning to drive: when I first read it, I rolled my eyes and said “Oh, Edna, you’ll do anything for a rhyme, won’t you?”  And certainly a lot of her lesser work suffers from sing-song sound patterns, and an over-reliance on bad rhymes.  Here, in the context of the war and death, “I have learned to drive” seems almost comically bad, like a sudden transition from a family’s Christmas newsletter: “Bill had his right leg amputated after the accident.  The twins are learning Tae Kwon Do.”  But then it came to me: many women learned to drive at the start of World War II because of the anticipated need for ambulance drivers, and the need to free up young, able-bodied men for the front.  “I have learned to drive” isn’t a humdrum, suburban rite of passage—it is Millay’s obligation as the citizen of a town under siege; it is her entry into a world of bone and blood.  Her sitting behind that wheel is taking up her part in a cycle of violence—the man whose place she takes goes to the front, and soon he or one of his companions will ride, dying, behind her as she drives.  In this compact phrase, “drive” is suddenly doing un-innocent work—it positions itself in contrast to its rhymes, “alive” and “thrive”, that precede it, taking the place of the word “death” that this poem will not speak aloud.  That line won me over fast.

She executes the turn from the ominous reality of the city in the octave to the more personal concern with hatred in the sestet—Millay is so good at the structure of the sonnet, maybe America’s best—we start to see that the poem is not really about the city, not entirely at least.  It’s interesting to think that the real problem with war is “hatred”—the poem thus far might suggest that “dying” is war’s greatest fault.  But as Millay argues, the really pernicious and evil thing about war is not death—a hurricane can kill as many (or more), and yet war is more terrible than that.  I know not everyone would agree with her—Thomas Hardy, for one, never found Fate’s hands any comfort—but I see something compelling about her argument that death in the face of the impersonal induces less fear or panic than the knowledge that your end is coming at another person’s hands.  The idea that we will now hurt each other, and not help, shakes the foundations of human society.  There is something terrifying about the idea that any people can overcome the taboos and laws against killing that civilization has erected against the chaos and the void.  War may be necessary (though Millay would not say so), but it is always about us at our worst.  We have eulogized this “good war”, World War II, to the point that I think we believe it escaped being tarred by that brush.  But I’ve heard the fear and the anguish in the voices of veterans who came back—I’ve seen my grandfather’s tears.  And I know what stories he always stopped short of telling.  If Millay does nothing else for me today, she reminds me what war feels and looks like, without giving me the image of a single bullet or soldier’s grave, and she makes me confront what war really is.