Poetry & War

I notice that today, 24 July, was the birthday of
Robert Graves (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985), an English poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist.

[Robert Graves] developed an early reputation as a war poet and was one of the first to write realistic poems about the experience of front line conflict. In later years, he omitted his war poems from his collections, on the grounds that they were too obviously "part of the war poetry boom." At the Battle of the Somme, he was so badly wounded by a shell-fragment through the lung that he was expected to die and was officially reported as having died of wounds. He gradually recovered and, apart from a brief spell back in France, spent the remainder of the war in England.

Graves, however, didn't remain one of the better known World War 1 poets such as Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, or Siegfried Sassoon (his close friend).

The Poets of World War 1 formed part of our high school syllabus in English Literature - back in the 1950s. I have faded memories of some of their works and histories. Looking back, it seems like a rather depressing study for young women to have undertaken, but as World War 2 was still fresh in memories of both students and teachers - and even World War 1 was recalled by some of the older ladies teaching us, I suppose it was no bad thing that the horrors of war be etched deeply into our subconscious minds.

Here are three of Robert Graves' war poems.

Hate Not - Fear Not

Kill if you must, but never hate:
Man is but grass and hate is blight,
The sun will scorch you soon or late,
Die wholesome then, since you must fight.

Hate is a fear, and fear is rot
That cankers root and fruit alike,
Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not,
Strike with no madness when you strike.

Fever and fear distract the world,
But calm be you though madmen shout,
Through blazing fires of battle hurled,
Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out!



Give Us Rain

'Give us Rain, Rain,' said the bean and the pea,
'Not so much Sun,
Not so much Sun.'
But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly,
And no rain falls and no waters run.

'Give us Peace, Peace,' said the peoples oppressed,
'Not so many Flags,
Not so many Flags.'
But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest,
And the children starve, they shiver in rags.


1915

I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow,
In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,
Red poppy floods of June,
August, and yellowing Autumn, so
To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,
And you’ve been everything.

Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack
In these soul-deadening trenches — pictures, books,
Music, the quiet of an English wood,
Beautiful comrade-looks,
The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,
The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,
And Peace, and all that’s good.