Survivors -- Siegfried Sassoon

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1189) Survivors No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. Of course they're 'longing to go out again,' These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk. They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died, Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride... Men who went out to battle, grim and glad; Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. -- Siegfried Sassoon

so i can't get the impending war out of my head these days. so much so
that some nights i don't sleep too well. i don't think i've ever felt
this way before. a couple of months ago i read 'dear mr. president', a
collection of short stories by gabe hudson. it wasn't a great piece of
writing, but it was vivid and energetic in its description of
manifestations of the 'gulf war syndrome.'

i cannot even begin to fathom the trauma of war.

there are numerous poems on war, several superlative ones written at
the time of the great wars by the likes of auden, sassoon, owen, and
others. 'survivors' is one such poem. i particularly like the way in
which it opens with a dispassionate tone - very nonchalant - then toys
with irony, and finally strikes with chilling contempt for the
advocates of war.

what a shame that history has taught us nothing - not even when her
lessons are passed down with such eloquence.

:vb:

The Mother -- Padraic H Pearse

Guest poem sent in by Frank O'Shea

(Poem #1188) The Mother I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge My two strong sons that I have seen go out To break their strength and die, they and a few, In bloody protest for a glorious thing, They shall be spoken of among their people, The generations shall remember them, And call them blessed; But I will speak their names to my own heart In the long nights; The little names that were familiar once Round my dead hearth. Lord, thou art hard on mothers: We suffer in their coming and their going; And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary Of the long sorrow--And yet I have my joy: My sons were faithful, and they fought. -- Padraic H Pearse

           (1879-1916)

In any war, people are killed; soldiers are killed. Right now, there are
American and British and Australian mothers who wonder if they will see
their sons again. This poem is from a different war and a different time,
but the sentiments outlive time and place.

The poem was written the night before Pearse's execution by firing squad;
his brother was executed some days later.

It is customary now to decry the kind of patriotism which Pearse
represented. His sincere love for his country has been corrupted by the
savagery of the IRA, just as his idea of the necessity of blood sacrifice
(cf Yeats "There's nothing but our own red blood / Can make a right Rose
Tree.") has been corrupted by suicide bombers. Yet he was a young man of
great piety, a poet of some substance and an educator before that word was
properly understood. His oration over the grave of the old Fenian O'Donovan
Rossa bears comparison with any example of oratory anywhere. His sense of
fierce love of Ireland he inherited from his Irish mother; his sensitivity
to any form of injustice came from his English artisan father; if it is
possible to imagine the best of both nations, it might be P H Pearse.

Any search engine will list dozens of sites devoted to Pearse and his
writings.

Frank O'Shea

Links:

  Biography: http://wwwvms.utexas.edu/~jdana/pearsehist.html
  And a picture: [broken link] http://indigo.ie/~1916/pic_pearse.html

  Another poem written on the eve of the poet's execution is Poem #144,
  which makes an interesting companion to today's

Sadness in Spring -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by David Fortin

(Poem #1187) Sadness in Spring Maytime, loveliest season, Loud bird-parley, new growth green, Ploughs in furrow, oxen yoked, Emerald sea, land-hues dappled. When cuckoos call from fair tree-tops Greater grows my sorrow; Stinging smoke, grief awake For my kinsfolk's passing. On hill, in vale, in ocean's isles, Whichever way man goes, Blest Christ there's no evading. -- Anonymous

   (13th century Welsh poem)

In the original Welsh:

 'Tristwch yn y Gwanwyn'

  Cyntefin ceinaf amser,
  Dyar adar, glas calledd,
  Ereidr yn Rhych, ych yng ngwedd,
  Gwyrdd mor, brithotor tiredd.

  Ban ganont gogau ar flaen gwydd gwiw,
  Handid mwy fy llawfrydedd,
  Tost mwg, amlwg anhunedd,
  Can ethynt fy ngheraint yn adwedd.

  Ym mryn, yn nhyno, yn ynysedd mor,
  Ymhob ffordd ydd eler
  Rhag Crist gwyn nid oes ynialedd.

This is a favorite poem of mine, and, given that we just celebrated St.
David's Day (March 1) and have a war that will probably begin in the not too
distant future, I felt it was appropriate.  I've included the Welsh text for
anyone interested in the poetic elements of the original.

This very interesting poem comes from a 13th century medieval Welsh
manuscript by an anonymous author.  It starts out like many nature poems,
praising the end of winter and the appearance of spring--much as we do, even
to this day.  In the Middle Ages, spring was the period of rejuvenation of
life and the end of the days of want and famine of winter.

However, in the second stanza, the poem takes a turn.  Rather than being
happy about the burgeoning of life in nature, instead the poet is sad
because spring also begins the season for warfare.  I can't say that I've
seen too many examples of this contrast being made-- between Spring the
Life-Bringer and Spring the War-Bringer.

The translation is from The Oxford Book of Welsh Verse in English (Oxford,
1977).

David Fortin
Doctoral Candidate
The Catholic University of America

This is the Horror that, Night After Night -- Gerald Gould

(Poem #1186) This is the Horror that, Night After Night This is the horror that, night after night, Sits grinning on my pillow -- that I meant To mix the peace of being innocent With the warm thrill of seeking out delight: This is the final blasphemy, the blight On all pure purpose and divine intent -- To dress the selfish thought, the indolent, In the priest's sable or the angel's white. For God's sake, if you sin, take pleasure in it, And do it for the pleasure. Do not say: 'Behold the spirit's liberty! -- a minute Will see the earthly vesture break away And God shine through.' Say: 'Here's a sin -- I'll sin it; And there's the price of sinning -- and I'll pay.' -- Gerald Gould

        (from 'Monogamy')

Superficially, today's poem seems to express the same sentiment that
Millay's "Penitent" [Poem #108] does:

  And, "One thing there's no getting by --
      I've been a wicked girl," said I:
       "But if I can't be sorry, why,
  I might as well be glad!"

but on closer reading, it's diametrically opposed - Millay's narrator feels
glad, though she 'knows' she shouldn't; Gould's makes the same "do it for the
pleasure" argument, but the underlying tone is one of a rather forced and
desperate gaiety, as though the speaker is trying to convince himself as
much as his listener.

There is a particular irony in the use of "For God's sake" that underscores
the poem's basic uncertainty. I was actually reminded far more strongly of
Hemingway's "Chapter Heading" [Poem #976]:

  And we have danced to devil's tunes
      Shivering home to pray

- there is the same sense of pleasures enjoyed only until the price of sinning
intrudes itself on your consciousness.

Gould is a suprisingly unknown poet - I'd never heard of him until I came
across today's piece, and websearching only turned up a couple of other poems
(both excellent - watch this space), and no biography, apart from a rather
sad "Gerald Gould (1885-1936)". If anyone has more information, or some
poems they like, I'd love to hear about them.

martin

Links:
  I found today's poem on Martin Hardcastle's poetry page:
    http://www.chiark.greenend.org.uk/~martinh/poems/

Die Gedanken Sind Frei (Our Thoughts Are Free) -- Traditional

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

This one's not really a war poem, but it struck me as being relevant to the
times:

(Poem #1185) Die Gedanken Sind Frei (Our Thoughts Are Free) Die Gedanken sind frei My thoughts freely flower, Die Gedanken sind frei My thoughts give me power. No scholar can map them, No hunter can trap them, No man can deny: Die Gedanken sind frei! I think as I please And this gives me pleasure, My conscience decrees, This right I must treasure; My thoughts will not cater To duke or dictator, No man can deny-- Die Gedanken sind frei! And if tyrants take me And throw me in prison My thoughts will burst free, Like blossoms in season. Foundations will crumble, The structure will tumble, And free men will cry: Die Gedanken sind frei! Neither trouble or pain Will ever touch me again. No good comes of fretting, My hope's in forgetting. Within myself still I can think as I will, But I laugh, do not cry: Die Gedanken sind frei! -- Traditional

       (Old German song, translation by Arthur Kevess and Gerda Lerner)

I first discovered this poem in what was my favourite book as a child: 'From
Anna' by Jean Little. It tells the story of a German family in the 1930s who
are digusted with Hitler and Nazism and leave the Fatherland for Canada.

This song was apparently very popular immediately before and during World
War II. At a time when all freedoms were being attacked, Germans clung to
the fact that their thoughts were still free. It was a source of hope in the
concentration camps and an weapon of defiance to the resistance. (In fact, I
found this translation on a website about the student protest group, The
White Rose).

The poem has a long history of protest. It can be traced back to the 12th
Century when the minstrel (!) Dietmar von Aist sang "Die Gedanken, die sind
ledig frei".

It appeared in its current form during the Peasant Wars of 1524-5, a series
of rural uprisings directed against unbearable taxation.  Both Lutheran and
Catholic landlords cut the rebels down: Martin Luther himself condemned the
peasants.  But they didn't really care -- after all, their thoughts were
still free.

I guess it's still the same today. The manipulation of ideas and thoughts,
whether in Baghdad or Washington, will ultimately fail, because "Die
gedanken sind frei!"

Priscilla

PS: Interestingly, there are several fairly different versions and
translations of this song. If you want to read it in the original German, or
listen to the song set to music, check out this site:
http://members.aol.com/masksfaces/whiterose/free.html

And here's a not-so-popular version that some people say is more authentic:

Thoughts are free!
Who can guess them?
They fly along like nightly treasures.
No man can know them
No hunter can shoot them
With powder and lead
Thoughts are free!

I think about what I want
and what makes me happy
But everything quietly,
and just how it comes.
To my wish and desire
Nobody can oppose,
It stays this way:
Thoughts are free!

And if they lock me in a dark dungeon
That is something that can be forgiven
'Cause my thoughts tear up the bars and walls.
Thoughts are free!

I think about what I want
and what makes me happy ...

And if they lock me in a dark dungeon ...

I love wine, my girl most of all,
Only me she pleases best
I am not alone
With my glass of wine
My girl is with me:
Thoughts are free!

That's why I will never worry anymore
And I will never tease myself
with whims anymore
Because in one's heart
One can keep laughing and joking
While thinking
Thoughts are free!

Priscilla