War Poetry

Review
2014–15

Jon Stallworthy 1935–2014

War Poets Association
The War Poetry Review is the journal of the War Poets Association.
The editors for the present volume are Santanu Das and Kate McLoughlin.

Correspondence should be sent to the editor preferably by email:

[email protected]

Postal address: The Editor, War Poets Association,

c/o Veale Wasbrough Vizards (DBMW), Orchard Court, Orchard Lane,
Bristol, BS1 5WS, UK

Individual articles are the copyright of authors.

ISSN 1753-9463
Website: www.warpoets.org

Cover Photograph: Jon Stallworthy,

copyright © Wolfson College, Oxford.
Back Cover: Stanzas from ‘War Poet’ by Jon Stallworthy
and Design: Mireia O’Prey
 THE WAR POETRY REVIEW
The Journal of the War Poets Association
2014–2015

Contents
Editorial
Santanu Das and Kate McLoughlin................................................................. 5

The War against the War Poets

Adrian Barlow................................................................................................. 7

Warwickshire’s Adlestrop: Rupert Brooke in the Forest of Arden

Guy Cuthbertson............................................................................................16

Reclaiming F.W. Harvey

James Grant Repshire....................................................................................23

‘A revolver to Charon’s Head’: Robert Graves and Survival

Charles Mundye.............................................................................................31

Richard Aldington’s War Poetry: Images, Impressions and Impact

Michael Copp.................................................................................................37

A Cell of One’s Own: Conscientious Objection and John Rodker’s

Narratives of Resistance
Evelyn Heinz..................................................................................................45

Poetics of Resistance: H.D.’s Sea Garden

Argha Banerjee..............................................................................................52

War Poetry: A Conversation with Michael Longley,

Andrew Motion and Jon Stallworthy
Edited by Santanu Das...................................................................................59

Jon Stallworthy: An Appreciation

Adrian Barlow................................................................................................71

Notes on Contributors...................................................................................74
3
Acknowledgements
We are grateful to Wolfson College, Oxford for allowing us to use the
photograph of Professor Jon Stallworthy on the cover of this volume, and
to Cambridge University Press for granting permission to reprint the essay
on ‘War Poetry: A Conversation’ which first appeared in The Cambridge
Companion to the Poetry of the First World War (2013). We would also like
to thank David Worthington, the Chairman of War Poets Association,
and Dr Elizabeth Robertson for their generous help with the volume in its
final stages.

4
Editorial
‘War poet’ and ‘war poetry’, observed Robert Graves in 1942, were ‘terms
first used in World War I and perhaps peculiar to it’. The current issue of the
War Poetry Review is a centennial tribute to this foundational moment. More
than any other genre – novel, drama or film – it is the poetry that has come to
form the terrain of First World War memory. And more: it has provided the
template for the poetry of all future wars. A hundred years after the outbreak
of the First World War, its poetry has moved, beyond literary history and
cultural memory, into a structure of feeling. We seldom read the poetry of the
First World War: it is usually a matter of re-reading, remembering, returning
– with pleasure, curiosity, sometimes even resistance.

In the opening essay, Adrian Barlow notes that ‘it seems strange that this year
of all years the War Poets should need friends’. Yet, as he goes on to discuss,
war poetry has been the site of skirmish, the target of snipers: many historians
and politicians (Michael Gove is perhaps the most prominent example) fear
that the poetry has hijacked the history of the war and they go on to denounce
it for misrepresenting the ‘truth’ about the war. This is a gross misreading
of the very nature of war poetry, and its relation to experience and memory.
War poetry is not the transparent envelope of ‘history’ – in whatever way
we may define the term – or just literary language speaking to itself about
itself. Instead, it is one of the most powerful and moving encounters between
literary form and historical experience, and delves into areas of imagination,
sound and feeling usually closed to other disciplines and arts. Moreover, its
richness lies in it providing differing interpretations to the same or different
audiences, at different times. Hence it is essential that in the centennial re-
assessment of the First World War, poetry should play a central role in helping
us to understand the experience as well as the cultural heritage it has helped
to create through the ‘mystery’ Owen wrote about in ‘Strange Meeting’.

At the same time First World War poetry is not limited to just a handful of
well-known soldier-poets. Part of the aim of the current issue of War Poetry
Review is to acknowledge the continuing power of these poets, as well as
to expand the canon and showcase a more diverse range of war poetry by
women, non-combatants, civilians, conscientious objectors and modernists.
Thus, we have a range of offerings here, from fresh readings of familiar
soldier-poets such as Rupert Brooke and Robert Graves alongside the lesser-
known F.W. Harvey to fellow-Imagists and war-crossed and warring lovers
5
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Richard Aldington and H.D to the pacifist John Rodker who carried on war
‘on another front’. A century on, war poetry – like war experience – has to
be more inclusive and look in different directions.

In his poem ‘The War Graves’, Michael Longley writes, ‘There will be no
end to clearing up after the war’. The war’s various legacies will be examined
over the next four years with remarkable intensity. The current issue of
WPR pays close attention to what is arguably its most popular and powerful
cultural legacy, and the variety and complexity with which it bears witness
to history’s ‘blood-dimmed tide’.

Just as the current edition was about to go to press, we were greatly

saddened to hear about the death of the distinguished poet, biographer
and literary critic Jon Stallworthy. Very few scholars have championed,
illuminated or edited First World War poetry – or mentored generations
of scholars working on war literature – with the authority, sensitivity and
humanism of Jon. His biography of Wilfred Owen, written in 1974, the
edition of Owen’s Complete Poems and Fragments (1983) and the Oxford
Book of War Poetry (1984) – re-released last year by Oxford University Press
(along with War Poet, a collection of his war poems) – remain magisterial
and pioneering works in the field. For those who knew him, he was an
exceptionally warm, generous and endearing presence. The poet Anne
Stevenson remembers him as ‘England’s most charming man’. A few weeks
before his death, when he had to withdraw from a poetry reading at the
British Academy and heard that the poet-critic Angela Leighton had offered
to read in his place, he sent an apology by email:

I so much enjoyed my last morning with you, Andrew, and Michael

that I’m more than ever sorry to have to miss the BA reading.
However, I cannot think of a replacement whose poems I like and
whose criticism of poetry I admire as much as Angela’s.

With gratitude and good wishes to you all from your devoted, Jon.

The ‘last morning’ refers to an extended discussion – ‘War Poetry: A

Conversation’ – in which he took part with Andrew Motion and Michael
Longley in the summer of 2012 and which is reprinted here. The above email
is a small but characteristic example of his generosity, courteousness and
beautifully cadenced prose. This volume is dedicated to his memory.

Santanu Das and Kate McLoughlin May, 2015

6
The War against the War Poets
ADRIAN BARLOW

It seems strange that this year of all years the War Poets should need friends.
But in the skirmishing that has marked the centenary of the outbreak of the
First World War, the attacks on them have become odder and more aggressive.

This oddness is evident in a recent Guardian Review feature 1 in which writers

and historians were invited to present ‘untold stories’ of the First World
War. While novelists such as Michael Morpurgo and Pat Barker set out
patiently to explain the genesis of their novels Warhorse (1982) and Toby’s
Room (2012), Max Hastings and Anthony Beevor began by summarizing the
‘Modern popular images’ of the War (Hastings) and the ‘popular impression
of events’ (Beevor).

For Hastings, these images were of ‘trenches, mud, wire, tin hats and poets’.
For Beevor, ‘this version of a totally futile and unnecessary war concentrates
on the fate of the individual, with death and squalor in the trenches, the
terrible moonscape of no man’s land, “going over the top”, the war poets, the
execution of deserters and the incompetence of generals mounting doomed
attacks.’2 What is striking about both historians’ statements here is that
the war poets are no longer simply being held to account for their part in
creating the mythology of the First World War: they have themselves now
become part of that mythology. This is new.

The war against the war poets during 2014 has largely been conducted in the
Press. In March Jeremy Paxman was reported in the Times as saying that
‘Poetry is no way to teach the Great War’:

Jeremy Paxman said that the war was ‘only ever taught as poetry now’,
adding: ‘It really won’t do.’
‘All that is taught is about the pointless sacrifice. It’s not helpful
to see the whole thing through the eyes of poetry.’ This could lead
to people ‘passing on half-baked prejudices,’ he said. ‘It’s too easy.
The big question is why Owen, after writing his anti-war poetry, and
Sassoon, after his letter of protest, decided to go back and fight.’
‘Luxuriating in the horror of the thing really won’t do and doesn’t
set out to answer really interesting questions.’3
7
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Certainly, it is interesting to ask why both Owen and Sassoon ‘decided’ to

go back and fight. But if Paxman had remembered the answers Owen and
Sassoon had already given to his ‘big question’, he might have been less keen
to ask it in the first place. For Owen, as for Sassoon, it was a matter not of
recovering a sense of patriotic duty, but of keeping faith with the soldiers
alongside whom he had already fought. Writing to his mother a month
before his own death, Owen explained:

‘My nerves are in perfect order … I came out in order to help these
boys – directly by leading them as well as an officer can, indirectly by
watching their sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader
can. I have done the first.’4

And Sassoon offered an equally candid account of his own motives:

Going back was the only way out of an impossible situation. At the
front I should at least find forgetfulness. And I would rather be killed
than survive as one who had ‘wangled’ his way through by saying that
the War ought to stop. Better to be in the trenches with those whose
experience I had shared and understood than with this medley of
civilians.5

Paxman’s remarks are of course essentially an attack on the way war poetry
is used to teach the First World War. This year has seen the publication
of a Report on an important interdisciplinary research project, funded by
the Arts and Humanities Research Council: ‘The First World War in the
Classroom: Teaching and the Construction of Cultural Memory’.6 Writing in
The Use of English, one of the Report’s co-authors, Dr. Ann-Marie Einhaus,
Lecturer in Modern and Contemporary Literature at the University of
Northumbria, has summarised the findings of the Report and assessed
the considerable pressures (curriculum, timetabling, resources etc.) that
English teachers encounter in teaching the literature of the Great War. She
nevertheless argues that

Even given time constraints that prevent teaching a wider range of

texts, teachers can still emphasize the fact that many millions of
people who experienced the war did so in different ways – depending
on class, gender, location, occupation, social and educational
background, nationality and ethnicity – without necessarily having to
teach literary examples of all these different perspectives.7
8
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Prominent among historians troubled by the way the teaching of the

literature of the Great War has, in their view, displaced an objective
‘historical’ assessment of 1914-1918 and replaced it with a dishonest
misrepresentation is Professor Dan Todman of Queen Mary University of
London. Writing for the BBC’s World War 1 website, he has characterized
the teaching and reception of war poetry and more recent literary
fiction thus:

Sassoon and Wilfred Owen could be used to evoke an emotional

reaction against war which engaged students and satisfied teachers,
but which utterly misrepresented the feelings of most Britons who
lived through the war years […] Although works like Faulks’ Birdsong
are fiction, audiences often believed that they communicated ‘deeper
truths’ about the war, because they reflected their own misconceptions.8

His strictures go further than Paxman’s: he not only attacks teachers for
being ‘satisfied’ with evoking an ‘emotional’ reaction from their students but
criticizes readers in general for their naivety in misguidedly believing that
novels such as Birdsong communicate ‘deeper truths’ – deeper, presumably
than the truths of history. He is particularly irritated that novelists such
as Faulks (and no doubt Barker and Morpurgo too) trade on what he calls
readers’ own misconceptions of the war. Here Todman surely under-rates the
intelligence of readers, whom significantly he misrepresents as ‘audiences’ –
as if reflective reading of a novel like Birdsong were a passive shared activity
like watching a film.

Again, Ann-Marie Einhaus offers a different and more positive perspective,

suggesting that ‘What these modern writers can demonstrate is how
popular memory of the war gradually takes shape and changes’. Her
conclusion offers a genuine way forward towards a more integrated and
interdisciplinary classroom approach:

English teachers can use their teaching of First World War literature,
particularly modern literature, to raise awareness of how literary texts
contribute to shaping our memory and understanding of the war […]
Encouraging pupils to question how the texts they have read influence
the way they think about the war, and asking them why and how they
think that is the case, allows them to question not only their own
responses to literary texts, but the social function of literature in a
wider sense.9
9
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Dan Todman is of course by no means the first historian to be dismissive

of the reading public’s response to the literature of the First World War.
Professor Jeremy Black, in his book The Great War and the Making of the
Modern World (2011) puts it thus:

The standard images of the war, both literary and visual, have been
ably criticized by military historians […] who have pointed out the
problems created by a very selective reading of a misleading literary
legacy, notably of works published in 1928-30. Memoirs are often
unreliable as history, but they are what the public and the media tend
to rely on for their history because they offer triumph over adversity,
as well as futility and pathos as themes, whereas straightforward
scholarship is considered too dull.10

To characterize the work of historians as ‘straightforward scholarship’

and condemn the books produced by the survivors of the war for being
‘unreliable as history’ is to set up a false antithesis. Not only does it beg the
question whether or not the fundamental disagreements among historians
about the war, its causes and consequences are simply ‘straightforward
scholarship’; it fundamentally misunderstands what the writers of the First
World War (both those who survived and those who did not) were trying to
do. The war poets saw themselves and their poetry looking forwards, not
back. They were witnesses but not historians. Isaac Rosenberg wrote to
Laurence Binyon in 1916:

I am determined that this war, with all its powers for devastation, shall
not master my poeting; that is, if I am lucky enough to come through
all right. I will not leave a corner of my consciousness covered up, but
saturate myself with the new and strange conditions of this life, and it
will all refine itself into poetry later on.11

And Sassoon, writing a Foreword to the Complete Poems of Isaac Rosenberg

(1937), saw in poems such as ‘Break of Day in the Trenches’ and, ‘Returning,
We hear the Larks’:

the poems that he might have written after the war, and the life he
might have lived when life began again beyond and behind those
trenches which were the limbo of all sane humanity and world-
improving imagination. For the spirit of poetry looks beyond life’s
trench-lines.12
10
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

What is clearly called for is an acknowledgement that the poets of the Great
War need to be re-read as individual voices, not as historians nor as a
homogeneous group claiming to speak general truths about the First World
War; but in the increasingly strident criticism of the war poets by journalists-
turned-historians such as Jeremy Paxman and Max Hastings there is no
evidence of such re-reading. In a recent Sunday Times feature, under the
billboard headline, ‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY MYTH’,13 Max Hastings
declares that ‘The popular image of 1914-18, nurtured by the war poets, is of
needlessly awful slaughter. But Britain’s generals were far from donkeys, the
bloodshed no worse than in other wars and the frontline soldier’s lot no more
terrible.’ One would like to know which other wars before 1914-1918 had
produced bloodshed (in terms of men killed, if in no other) on such a scale.

It is a curious article, an abridged version of his preface to a new edition

of a C. S. Forester novel, The General, which originally appeared in 1936.
Hastings begins with a striking assertion:

No warrior caste in history has received such mockery and contempt

from posterity as Britain’s commanders of the First World War.
They are deemed to have presided over unparalleled carnage with a
callousness matched only by their incompetence. They are perceived
as the high priests who dispatched a generation to its death, their
dreadful achievement memorialized for eternity by such bards as
Siegfried Sassoon.

Hastings’ lexis here is revealing: ‘warrior caste’, ‘high priests’, ‘bards’ –

such language conjures ideas of a remote, ancient fighting elite: the hosts
of Midian perhaps, but hardly the British Expeditionary Force. The use of
these words is peculiar to the author: who else has ever called Sassoon a
bard? Which poet(s) ever depicted the generals as high priests?

What really offends Hastings is the fact that the full-time soldiers like
French, Haig and Rawlinson should have been so impugned by ‘cultured
citizen soldiers, disdaining the stoicism displayed since time immemorial by
professional warriors’. Actually, this sounds more like the disdain displayed
by the warrior caste for those who – for the duration of the war, but for no
longer than absolutely necessary – had to be allowed into the Officers’ Mess.

Hastings is eager to defend the privileges of the Mess. Though he suggests

accounts of ‘the sybaritic lifestyle of commanders in the Kaiser’s conflict’
11
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

were exaggerated, he himself cheerfully accepts that ‘When champagne was

available, most British, American and German senior officers drank it as
enthusiastically between 1939 and 1945 as they did between 1914 and 1918.’

Hastings’ disdain for the feebleness of the ‘citizen soldiers’ is worth

considering alongside an entry in the (carefully re-written after the war)
diaries of Field Marshal Earl Haig:

Monday, 4 September [1916]:

I visited Toutencourt and saw Gen. Gough. The failure to hold the
position gained on the Ancre is due, he reported, to the 49th Division.
The units of that Division did not really attack and some men did
not follow their officers. The total losses of this Division are under a
thousand! It is a territorial division from the West Riding of Yorkshire.
I had occasion a fortnight ago to call the attention of the Army and
Corps Commanders (Gough and Jacobs) to the lack of smartness,
and slackness of one of its Battalions in the matter of saluting when I
was motoring through the village where it was billeted. I expressed my
opinion that such men were too sleepy to fight well, etc.

Hastings enjoins his readers to see the generals as men who ‘possessed
virtues and vices bred into the British military caste over centuries’.
However, after reading, nearly a century later, that Haig condemned the
49th Division – part-timers, Territorials – for ‘slackness … in the matter
of saluting’ and judged it not to have fought hard enough because it only
suffered 1000 casualties,14 Hastings’ plea in mitigation – that they were
simply ‘men of their time, and it is thus that they should be judged’ – sounds
unconvincing. Men of their time … men of their caste: tout comprendre, c’est
tout pardoner – is that historically, never mind morally, sufficient?

It is, as ever, Sassoon’s poem ‘The General’ that is produced in evidence

against the war poets. Perhaps, however, before anyone else cites this poem
as the fons et origo of the myth that the staff officers were callous, cosseted
incompetents, they should read what Field Marshal Viscount Wavell had to
say about staff officers in his still much-admired anthology of English verse,
Other Men’s Flowers (1944):

The feeling between the regimental officer and the staff officer is as old
as the history of fighting. I have been a regimental officer in two minor
wars and realized what a poor hand the staff made of things and
12
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

what a luxurious life they led; I was a staff officer in the First World
War and realized that the staff were worked to the bone to keep the
regimental officers on the rails. I have been a Higher Commander in
one minor and one major war and have sympathized with the views of
both staff and regimental officers.15

To prove the point, he includes Sassoon’s ‘The General’.

Hastings claims that ‘the public mood began to shift about the time the
Depression began’ and he cites Sassoon’s Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man
(1928) and Edmund Blunden’s Undertones of War (also 1928, though
Hastings incorrectly dates its publication as 1930) among key books that
‘depicted a protracted agony in pursuit of rival national purposes that
allegedly meant little to those who perished in their names, compounded
by the brutalism of those who directed the armies’. He cites a 1975 letter by
Charles Carrington to an unnamed friend in the wake of Paul Fussell’s book
The Great War and Modern Memory:

Does anybody care any longer about the silent millions who did not
want the war, did not cause the war, did not shirk the war, and did not
lose the war […] who had never heard of these lugubrious poets […]
with their self-pitying introversion?

This unidentified (unpublished?) letter is strikingly at odds with the views

expressed by Carrington in his excellent memoir, Soldier from the Wars
Returning (1965). Carrington is rightly admired for having insisted that not
all soldiers returned from the trenches traumatised by their experiences
and convinced of the war’s futility. What is less often noted, however,
is his willingness to understand viewpoints other than his own. He is
particularly sympathetic towards Siegfried Sassoon. ‘For ten readers who
know of Siegfried Sassoon’s protest,’ he asks, ‘are there two who know that
he returned to duty, performed more feats of valour, and ended the war a
wounded hero, like so many others?’ And he goes on to describe Sassoon’s
poem, ‘Everyone Sang’, as ‘the supreme revelation of the soldier’s life […] If
this is not pure poetry, I know none.’16

Thus Carrington on Sassoon. More surprising still, in the light of the letter
Hastings quotes, is Carrington’s admiration for Edmund Blunden. He calls
Undertones of War (1928) ‘a book that would be remembered and read,
whatever the circumstances in which it had been written […] So firmly
13
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

constructed, so deeply wrought out of genuine experience, so exquisitely

finished is this book that it transcends experience.’ He ends by saying that,
‘as one of Edmund Blunden’s admirers, I should be proud to think that my
crude rendering of the soldiers’ chorus would help some of my readers to
detect his undertones.’17

No doubt Max Hastings will go on accusing the war poets, or at least those
he names in ‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY MYTH’, of having ‘nurtured’ a false
myth of the Great War. However, the more pernicious myth being peddled
in this centenary year is the myth that no one apart from the military
historians understands what the Great War was about, what it was like and
what the ‘warrior caste’ had to put up with; and that it’s all the fault of the
war poets.

The best corrective to this new myth is Vivien Whelpton’s article, ‘Poetry
Matters’, in the centenary edition of the Western Front Association’s journal,
Stand To!. Whelpton points out that ‘the combatant poets of the First World
War had to search both for the means through which to render the nature of
this ‘new’ type of war and for a vision that encompassed that war in all its
complexity’.18 She argues for both a deeper and a wider reading of the poetry
of the war, and concludes:

It is a diverse and challenging body of work, but its range, vividness and
imaginative power have contributed hugely to the place of the Great
War in our cultural heritage. That this writing, rather than historical
texts, should be the primary mode of access for the non-specialist is
not a situation to be deplored. Rather, we should be insisting that the
reading of the poetry should be more perceptive and wide-ranging.19

Notes
1
26 July 2014.
2
‘The Front Lines’, The Guardian, Review section (26 July 2014), 4.
3
The Times (14 March 2014), 3.
4
Wilfred Owen, Letter to Susan Owen (4 or 5 October 1918), Jennifer Breen, ed.,
Wilfred Owen: Selected Poetry and Prose (London: Routledge, 1988), 165.
5
Siegfried Sassoon, The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston (London: Faber and
Faber, 1937), 549.
6
For full information about the project and to access the final Report, see
http://ww1intheclassroom.exeter.ac.uk (accessed 3 July 2014).
7
Ann-Marie Einhaus, ‘Learning, Literature and Remembrance’, The Use of English,
65.3 (Summer 2014), 19-20.

14
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

8
http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/worldwars/wwone/perceptions_01.shtml (accessed 3 July
2014).
9
Einhaus, ‘Learning, Literature and Remembrance’.
10
Jeremy Black, The Great War and the Making of the Modern World (London:
Continuum, 2011), 220.
11
Isaac Rosenberg, Letter to Laurence Binyon [1916], Gordon Bottomley and D. W.
Harding, eds., The Complete Works of Isaac Rosenberg (London: Chatto & Windus,
1937), 373.
12
Siegfried Sassoon, ‘Preface’, The Complete Works of Isaac Rosenberg, ed. Bottomley
and Harding, ix-x.
13
Max Hastings, ‘OH, WHAT A LOVELY MYTH’, Sunday Times, News Review
section (11 May 2014), 1-3.
14
Actually the losses of the 49th Division in this action were 1728 men (428 killed), a
casualty rate of 30%; the high casualty rate among officers (70%), is now considered
to be one of the reasons for the Division’s failure at Thiepval. Figures and analysis in
‘From Disaster to Triumph – the 49th (West Yorkshire Division) in the Great War’:
Western Front Association website:
http://www.westernfrontassociation.com/great-war-on-land/britain-allies/1761-from-
disaster-to-triumph-the-49th-west-riding-division-in-the-great-war.html (accessed 3
July 2014).
15
A. P. Wavell (ed.), Other Men’s Flowers (London: Jonathan Cape, 1944), 131.
16
Charles Carrington, Soldier from the Wars Returning [1965] (Barnsley: Pen and Sword
Military Classics, 2006), 266.
17
Ibid, 267.
18
Vivien Whelpton, ‘Poetry Matters’, Stand To! 100 (June 2014), 135-139.
19
Ibid., 139.

15
Warwickshire’s Adlestrop:
Rupert Brooke in the Forest of Arden
GUY CUTHBERTSON

In the summer of 1914, with war breaking out in Europe and Britain’s entry
only days away, Rupert Brooke took a car journey to ‘lovely’ Hampden-in-
Arden:

I remembered once passing through a station of that name. And I’ve

always wanted to see the forest of Arden. … Hampden-in-Arden.
What a name to dream about! […] It’s the sort of country I adore. I’m
a Warwickshire man. Don’t talk to me of Dartmoor or Snowdon or
the Thames or the Lakes. I know the heart of England. It has a hedgy,
warm bountiful dimpled air. Baby fields run up & down the little
hills, & all the roads wriggle with pleasure. There’s a spirit of rare
homeliness about the houses & the countryside, earthy, uneccentric
yet elusive, fresh, meadowy, gaily gentle. […] Shakespeare & I are
Warwickshire yokels. What a county!1

This letter about Hampden is arguably the first decent piece of war writing
to come from the pen of one of our war poets – or, if you like, the first
example of how literary this war would be. Just before Britain entered this
war, a war in which letter-writing played such a part, Hampden-in-Arden
produced a fine letter and one that says a good deal about both Brooke
and England. The war is there in the letter in so far as Brooke complains
that he couldn’t find Shakespeare’s holly or horns or shepherds or dukes at
Hampden, and neither Rosalind nor Audrey – ‘And Orlando’s in an O.T.C.
on Salisbury Plain’. The possibility of war is an undercurrent in everything
he says in the letter, as he expresses his affection for home as well as a sense
of the vulnerability of what he loves. The letter gives us, though, a different
Brooke from the Brooke of ‘The Soldier’; possibly even a writer who might
appeal to modern readers more than the war sonneteer does.

We could easily compare this letter with ‘The Soldier’: certain words and
images reappear in the sonnet written a few months later and both consider
what England is and what is most lovable about it. The heart, the earth,
the ways to roam, gentleness, the flowers, the sun, dreams, home, can all be
16
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

found in both the letter and the poem. Perhaps ‘The Soldier’ is a poem for
Shakespeare’s Orlando to recite at his O.T.C.; but the differences between
the two pieces of writing are probably more important than the similarities.
If Brooke had written poetry in the spirit of this letter, his reputation would
be different. For a start, the letter shows us his sense of humour. Describing
the visit to Hampden, he said ‘It is perpetually June in Warwickshire, and
always six o’clock of a warm afternoon’ and ‘the flowers smell of heaven;
there are no such larks as ours, & no such nightingales; the men pay more
than they owe; & the women have very great virtue & wonderful virtue, &
that, mind you, by no means through the mere absence of trial’. With an eye
for comic contrast, however, Brooke saw the less beautiful reality:

Hampden was just too full of the plutocracy of Birmingham, short,

crafty, proudly vulgar men, for all the world like heroes of Arnold
Bennett’s novels. They were extraordinarily dressed, for the most part
in very expensive clothes, but without collars. I think they’d started in
collars, but removed them by the way. They rolled out of their cars,
and along the street, none so much as five foot high, all hot, & canny
to the point of unintelligibility, emitting the words ‘Eh …’ or ‘Ah, lad
…’ at intervals. They were profound, terrifying, and of the essence of
Life: but unlovely.

It is a relief to know that real, twentieth-century human beings

live in Hampden. It is a real place (although with a touch of comic
stereotype). Brooke offers us a pre-war England of motor-cars, cities and
suburbanization, an obsession with ‘home’, new money, detachable collars
and Birmingham. If only there were some Brummies in ‘The Soldier’ and
some hints of Arnold Bennett in the war poet. There is no business in ‘The
Soldier’: we have a ‘rich earth’ not the filthy rich, a ‘richer dust’ rather than
the nouveau riche; we have giving rather than buying and selling. From
Rugby four years earlier, he had written that

What happens is that I suddenly feel the extraordinary value and

importance of everybody I meet, and almost everything I see. In
things I am moved in this way especially by some things; but in people
by almost all people. That is, when the mood is on me. I roam about
places – yesterday I did it even in Birmingham! – and sit in trains
and see the essential glory and beauty of all the people I meet. I can
watch a dirty middle-aged tradesman in a railway-carriage for hours,
and love every dirty greasy sulky wrinkle in his weak chin and every
17
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

button on his spotted unclean waistcoat. I know their states of mind

are bad. But I’m so much occupied with their being there at all, that
I don’t have time to think of that. I tell you that a Birmingham goaty
tariff-reform fifth-rate business-man is splendid and immortal and
desirable. It’s the same about the things of ordinary life. Half an hour’s
roaming about a street or village or railway station shows so much
beauty that it is impossible to be anything but wild with suppressed
exhilaration.2

Perhaps this was the occasion, while sharing a carriage with a Brummie
businessman, travelling along the line between Rugby and Birmingham that
ran through the Forest of Arden, when he had passed ‘through a station of
that name’ and seen the intriguing ‘Hampden-in-Arden’ on the platform
sign. In the South Seas in 1913, he had complained that the Pacific islands
were going to become indistinguishable from Birmingham and when he
wrote about Hampden he seems to have retained some of this fear of the
modern life of trade and possessions that invades and destroys a ‘primitive’
Eden, but he could find beauty and life in modernity.

The Hampden letter is, though, a letter that causes some bafflement. Where
is this Hampden- in-Arden? There is no such place. Critics and biographers
have tended to avoid this matter by referring to Hampden as if it does
exist or by simply skirting over its exact location. Christopher Hassall says
that ‘On August 2, the last Sunday of the old world at peace, the brothers
thought they would go for a spree in Mrs. Brooke’s motor car’.3 Nigel Jones
simply mentions ‘a long car trip with the Ranee and Alfred through the
English heartland of Warwickshire, redolent with images and memories
of Shakespeare, whose death-day he would so soon come to share’.4
Hampden-in-Arden is most likely to be Hampton-in-Arden, a village of
medieval and Victorian faux-medieval houses that could indeed convince
the visitor that he has stepped back into Shakespeare’s time. Thatched and
half-timbered, the village could evoke As You Like It, as it has for many
tourists. The Victorian buildings in their Tudor fancy-dress were no doubt
built with Shakespeare in mind and, alongside six other poets, Shakespeare
is depicted in saintly pose in the church’s Edwardian east window.5 Some
of Shakespeare’s relations, Ardens, lived in the village, at a house that still
exists. It is true though that Brooke’s description of the place in his letter
makes it sound more like the slightly better-known, busier Henley-in-Arden
(the Henley of ‘warmest welcome’ of William Shenstone’s ‘Written at an
Inn at Henley’).6 Brooke describes ‘Arden’ as ten miles north of Stratford
18
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

and near ‘the Stratford-Birmingham canal’ – Henley is near this canal

and roughly ten miles north of Stratford, whereas the canal turns towards
Birmingham some miles before Hampton, which is nearer to the Grand
Union Canal and some fifteen miles as the crow flies (twenty miles by today’s
roads) north of Stratford. Brooke says he saw the Stratford- Birmingham
canal but there’s no reason why he would have done if he had been visiting
Hampton, but perhaps he got his canals mixed up or saw the River Blythe.
And if ‘Arden’ refers to the forest not a village then it is correct to say
that the forest traditionally begins just north of Stratford. Both Henley
and Hampton had inns that served plenty of visitors from Birmingham
– Hampton had three inns and two tearooms in 1914 and Henley was
known for its inns lining the High Street. Brooke ‘wanted to go thirty miles
away’ and both Hampton and Henley would fit that description, although
Hampton is a little nearer than that (Hampton to Rugby is about 20 miles as
the crow flies, but 28 miles by car). Both Hampton and Henley have a train
station where he could have seen the name once before, although Hampton
was on a main line used by express trains, with trains running to Rugby
from Birmingham, and it is far more likely that it was Hampton-in-Arden
station, hidden away from the village by steep green banks, that he saw once
before. Throw a stick in either Hampton or Henley these days and you might
not hit a tree but you are more than likely to hit a Brummie millionaire. No
doubt it was the same a century ago. Hampton or Henley? Does it really
matter? Not especially, and clearly it didn’t matter to Brooke, who got the
name wrong and might have merged two places together.

One of the interesting things about the letter is that it plays with the real and
the unreal and the slightly misremembered name only adds to that effect.
What we get is a sense of how England was understood by many, probably
most, people during the war – a mixture of the places they knew, both ugly and
beautiful, and then the dream-like, literary idealized England. Brooke wrote
about imaginary Englands that are written in the ‘little nowhere of the brain’:

     and in that nowhere move

The trees and lands and waters that we love.

And she for whom we die, she the undying

Mother of men
England!

In Avons of the heart her rivers run.7

19
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

But in his letter in 1914 we get what he once referred to as ‘England (as I
know it)’8 as well as England as we like it. It is a more representative attitude
to England than the one in ‘The Soldier’ and in its particularity it is a more
realistic interpretation of patriotism. It is often felt that Brooke’s ‘The
Soldier’ is bad because it is unrealistic, offering a dream England rather
than a specific, unofficial England of, say, hurrying trains passing through
Adlestrop or Hampton-in-Arden.

Edward Thomas, the poet of ‘Adlestrop’, was friends with Brooke for
several years and had stayed with him at Grantchester, but he was no great
admirer of Brooke’s war sonnets (in 1916, two of Thomas’s poems seem
to have been written in reaction against Brooke’s ‘The Soldier’ – ‘No one
cares less than I’ on 25-6 May, and ‘As the team’s head-brass’ on 27 May).
In the Hampden letter we see why they got along, despite a difference in
age and lifestyle: Thomas would note Brooke’s realism and his ‘humour
and good humour’ when he wrote his obituary for The English Review in
1915,9 and we see in the Hampden letter a Brooke who is closer to Thomas’s
own writing. ‘Adlestrop’ was written during the war, around the time
when ‘The Soldier’ was first published, but it recalls a train journey in
June 1914. Like Thomas at Adlestrop, which was just over the border from
Warwickshire (hearing all the birds of ‘Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire’,
Thomas would have heard the birds of Warwickshire too), it was the name
that attracted Brooke more than the place, and he had first seen the name
when passing through on a train – it was a name to dream about but
Brooke felt that ‘Perhaps one shouldn’t have gone there’ (Thomas never
saw or visited Adlestrop, seeing ‘only the name’). Adlestrop and Hampden
exist as real places, occasionally unlovely (someone ‘cleared his throat’
at Adlestrop, and at Hampden men go about without collars), wrapped
up in unreality – the magical possibility of hearing all the birds of two
counties, or the possibility of returning to Shakespeare’s England. Like
Brooke, Thomas was always alert to the literary associations of names
and places, and always aware of the difference between the actual place
and the images its name evokes. Thomas went to Shakespeare country on
22 March 1912, writing that ‘Chance has brought me to Stratford upon
Avon where it is evident Shakespeare once lived & is not alive now’;10 while
Brooke complained that he couldn’t find much of As You Like It in the
Forest of Arden – he only glimpses ‘a hart weeping large-eyed on the brink
of the Stratford-Birmingham canal’. And in 1914 Thomas wrote a series
of essays about England’s response to the war, journeying through the
Forest of Arden when visiting Birmingham and Coventry. Like Brooke, he
20
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

saw the lovely and the unlovely in the heart of England, as he shows in his
notebooks and in the essay ‘Tipperary’:

For the women the sun was too hot, but not for the corn, the clover-
hay, the apples, of this great summer, nor for the recruits sleeping out.
The sun gilded and regilded the gingerbread. Everybody that could,
made an effort to rise to the occasion of the weather. The parks and
the public gardens were thronged. The public-houses overflowed,
often with but a single soldier as an excuse. Bands played in the streets
– at Newcastle bagpipes – to quicken recruiting. A crowd listened
to a band at Birmingham outside the theatre before going in to hear
Mr. Lewis Waller recite ‘Kipling and Shakespeare,’ and the first
remark to break the ensuing silence was, ‘It’s by far the best band in
Birmingham, by far.’ Street meetings having no connection with the
war were held. Men in the Bull Ring at Birmingham one afternoon
argued furiously on faith and works, quoting Scripture amid eager
onlookers.11

Brooke’s sense that the unlovely city-dwellers were nonetheless ‘profound,

terrifying, and of the essence of Life’ was echoed by Thomas in his wartime
essays. Thomas knew that, although he loved the countryside, in order to
understand England he needed to understand Birmingham, which was then
the most modern of Britain’s cities, and towns and cities play a bigger part in
Thomas’s poetry than one might be led to think (even in ‘Adlestrop’, the city
is latent in the fact that it is an ‘express’ train).

We are still told today that, a century ago, it was ‘still Shakespeare’s
England, recognisably’, and Brooke might give that impression in ‘The
Soldier’ but his Hampden letter suggests otherwise.12 All the world’s a stage,
but collarless Brummie businessmen drive onto the stage in their cars like
Mr Toad and remind him that this England is not a Shakespearean play.
His letter complements and contradicts ‘The Soldier’. It is also a watershed
moment, the final record of the world before the war and, at the same time,
the beginning of Great War writing.

Notes
1
Rupert Brooke, ‘July 1914’ in The Letters, ed. by Geoffrey Keynes (London: Faber and
Faber, 1968), 599.
2
Timothy Rogers, Rupert Brooke: A Reappraisal and Selection (London: Routledge and
Kegan Paul, 1971), 43.
21
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

3
Christopher Hassall, Rupert Brooke: A Biography (London: Faber and Faber, 1972),
456.
4
Nigel Jones, Rupert Brooke: Life, Death and Myth (London: BBC, 2003), 373.
5
The poets depicted as saints, behind the altar, are Langland, Chaucer, Shakespeare,
Milton, Dryden, Cowper, and Shelley.
6
This poem has been associated incorrectly with Henley-upon-Thames and it probably
was not about Henley- in-Arden either, but the latter is the Henley of the poem’s famous
title.
7
‘Fragment of an Ode-Threnody on England’ in Rogers, Rupert Brooke, 226.
8
Rogers, Rupert Brooke, 46.
9
Edward Thomas, A Language Not to be Betrayed: Selected Prose, ed. Edna Longley
(Manchester: Carcanet, 1981), 109.
10
Edward Thomas, Letters from Edward Thomas to Gordon Bottomley, ed. R. George
Thomas (London: OUP, 1968), 220.
11
Edward Thomas, A Language Not to be Betrayed: Selected Prose, ed. Edna Longley
(Manchester: Carcanet, 1981), 234.
12
Paul Johnson, ‘The Age of the Warrior Poet’, Standpoint (June 2014).
http://standpointmag.co.uk/node/5579

22
Reclaiming F.W. Harvey
JAMES GRANT REPSHIRE

F. W. Harvey was one of the most popular soldier-poets during the First
World War, yet until recently his works were in danger of fading into
obscurity. He is unique for his insight into the prisoner of war (henceforth
POW) experience, and also for his pioneering work in the first of the
British trench journals, the 5th Gloucester Gazette. Yet scholarly work on
his life has been lacking, largely due to a previous insufficiency of primary
source material. Fortunately, in 2010 Harvey’s descendants discovered his
personal papers in his derelict home in Yorkley, Gloucestershire. By late
2013 the F. W. Harvey Collection had become available for researchers at the
Gloucestershire Archives, catalogued and preserved through a collaborative
project that also involved the University of Exeter and the F. W. Harvey
Society. The documents in the collection number well into the thousands,
and include poetry and prose manuscripts, notebooks, personal records,
BBC radio scripts, and a lifetime of correspondence – including many letters
to and from his best friend Ivor Gurney – and even the full typescript of a
novel, which was published for the first time this summer.1

The availability of Harvey’s papers gives us the opportunity to re-evaluate

his place within the canon of First World War literature. In The Boundaries
of the Literary Archive, Lisa Stead asserts that literary archives ‘allow us
to interrogate, dialogue with, and re-evaluate conventional conceptions
of a writer, or to reclaim an author from critical or cultural obscurity’.2
New research into Harvey’s papers grants all of these things, facilitating a
greater understanding of a significant First World War poet whose voice
was in danger of being lost. Harvey experienced the war first as a private
soldier, then as a non-commissioned officer, a commissioned officer, and
finally as a POW. Enlisting in the 1/5th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment
on 8 August 1914, he chose to serve as a private despite his public-school
education and professional qualifications as a lawyer. The 1/5th Gloucesters
arrived in France in March 1915, and on 15 April the first issue of the first
British trench journal of the war, the 5th Gloucester Gazette, appeared from
their trenches in Ploegsteert, Belgium. Harvey’s poetry featured heavily in
every issue until his capture; he would publish seventy-seven poems there,
along with some satirical prose. He provided so much quality material that
its editor and founder, Chaplain (Captain) G. F. Helm, credited Harvey’s
23
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

work as the primary reason for the periodical’s survival through its early
days.3 The Gazette and Harvey’s work in it would inspire other trench
journals, as evidenced by the popular The Listening Post of the 7th Canadian
Infantry later reprinting – or more accurately, plagiarising, as they gave
no credit for the original author or source – Harvey’s poems ‘Our Portrait
Gallery – To P. H.’ and ‘To the Patriots of Poplar’.4

Harvey repeatedly volunteered for night patrols, resulting in promotion

to lance-corporal, and in August 1915 he was awarded the Distinguished
Conduct Medal and commissioned as a second lieutenant. He then returned
to England to receive officer training. His trench-journal poetry had gained
notice, even being reviewed in the Times Literary Supplement.5 Sidgwick
& Jackson soon contracted him, and August 1916 saw the publication of
his first collection, A Gloucestershire Lad at Home and Abroad. It sold well,
going into six editions by 1918.

Harvey had no opportunity to enjoy his newfound fame, as he returned to

the front with 2/5th Gloucesters in July 1916, and was captured on 17 August.
He was taken alone, having gone on what he later claimed was a solo-
reconnaissance of a German trench – though new evidence indicates he may
have gone out seeking vengeance-kills for the recent death of his comrade,
Lieutenant R. E. Knight. Having entered a deep German trench during
this action, he found himself unable to get back out before being cornered
by enemy soldiers. He spent the rest of the war in captivity. Still, he had the
distinction of being the only poet to publish a collection while a POW, when the
commandant at Crefeld6 Offiziersgefangenenlager allowed him to mail home
his manuscript of what was published in September 1917 as Gloucestershire
Friends: Poems from a German Prison Camp. Harvey would publish further
POW poems after the war in Ducks, and Other Verses, including the highly-
popular title poem which was written after a serving period of solitary
confinement as punishment for an escape attempt. In October 1918 he was
moved to the Netherlands on a prisoner-exchange programme; however, his joy
at release was diminished by news that that his brother, Eric, had been killed in
action that same month. He returned to Gloucestershire in February 1919 and
was demobilised. His final publication that directly resulted from the war was
memoirs of his life as a POW, Comrades in Captivity (1920). Still, the war would
continue to influence his work until his death in 1957.

The greatest value of Harvey’s wartime poetry comes from the insight it
gives into the experience of British POWs. The POW experience of the
24
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

First World War has largely been ignored until recently, though studies are
expanding thanks to a growing interest in POW experiences as a whole,
evidenced by an entire conference dedicated to POW studies held by the
newly-formed POW Network at Warwick University in November 2013. It
must be noted that Harvey’s status as an officer meant he was held in an
all-officer POW camp, or Offiziersgefangenenlager, exempting him from the
forced-labour endured by POWs from the ranks. Officer POW’s primary
distress was not physical hardship; rather it was an abundance of boredom
that allowed the mind to dwell on negative thoughts and the hopelessness
of confinement.

One of the few psychological studies of POWs was written by Major Walter
A. Lunden, an American sociology professor who served as a prison officer
during the Second World War. He noted that immediately after capture,
POWs tend towards a state of shock and stupor, partially caused by the fact
that capture, unlike death or wounding, is an outcome of combat that they
had never envisioned. As they adjust to their new circumstances they begin
to experience feelings of disgrace at having been captured.7 Harvey wrote
that once his initial interrogations were over and he was placed in solitary
confinement, he felt guilt that his family would worry over him, and that his
comrades might get killed looking for him: ‘Again and again, I asked myself
if I could in any way have avoided being taken [...] why did I risk getting into
that trench at all?’8

The feelings of guilt that Harvey, like most POWs, felt shortly after capture
never left, but grew. His guilt was primarily associated with knowing that his
comrades – including his two brothers – were still fighting in the front lines,
while he was relatively safe in prison camps. In his memoirs he wrote that
‘the whole sting of [the POW’s] position, that which makes it so intolerable,
is [...] his friends and brothers are “out there” killing and being killed. He
cannot help them. He is futile [...] There is no more terrible reflection for
a man.’9 He further explains that, though many might say that he was a
decorated hero who had ‘done his bit, he felt that a soldier’s ‘bit’ was never
done while his country was still at war.10 This inability to join comrades in
fighting was what he called ‘the true agony of the prisoner-state’.11 This guilt
was seen in many of his poems from Gloucestershire Friends.

One of these poems is ‘Prisoners’, written at Gütersloh and Crefeld

Offiziersgefangenenlagers in late 1916 or 1917. As published in Gloucestershire
Friends, it reads:
25
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Comrades of risk and rigour long ago

Who have done battle under honour’s name,
Hoped (living or shot down) some meed of fame,
And wooed bright Danger for a thrilling kiss, —
Laugh, oh laugh well, that we have come to this!

Laugh, oh laugh loud, all ye who long ago

Adventure found in gallant company!
Safe in Stagnation, laugh, laugh bitterly.
While on this filthiest backwater of Time’s flow
Drift we and rot, till something set us free!

Laugh like old men with senses atrophied,

Heeding no Present, to the Future dead,
Nodding quite foolish by the warm fireside
And seeing no flame, but only in the red
And flickering embers, pictures of the past: —
Life like a cinder fading black at last.12

The poem addresses Harvey’s fellow POWs, who were once fighters –
‘Comrades of risk and rigour’ – but are now neutralized. This poem is
consistent with Lunden’s observation that most soldiers envisioned death or
wounding rather than capture removing them from the battlefield, as Harvey
states they hope to find fame either ‘living or shot down’.

The new availability of Harvey’s manuscript of Gloucestershire Friends

allows us to use early drafts of this poem to gain further insight into the
POW’s emotions. Harvey does not directly state in the published version of
this poem that he feels guilt that others are fighting while he is not; however,
in his earliest draft, the fourth and fifth lines of the second stanza read
‘Here we must wait till others set us free. / Safe in stagnation! Laugh, laugh
bitterly!’13 The manuscript shows that Harvey recognised that his freedom
was now conditional upon his comrades fighting to defeat the enemy. Not
only could he no longer fight alongside his comrades, but his comrades
now had to fight on his behalf. This idea of waiting to be set free by others
continued in the second draft of his poem, but was eventually edited out
completely in his third draft.

Another poem from Gloucestershire Friends, ‘At Afternoon Tea’, indicates

the same guilt felt by POWs, which is again exposed by a close reading of its
26
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

manuscript version. Harvey used the triolet to highlight the emotional and
experiential distance between those fighting in the trenches, and those who
merely hear about the fighting secondhand. The published version reads:

We have taken a trench

Near Combles, I see,
Along with the French.
We have taken a trench.
(Oh, the bodies, the stench!)
Won’t you have some more tea?
We have taken a trench
Near Combles, I see.14

The shifting meaning of the repeated lines highlights that the mere statement
‘We have taken a trench’ does little justice to the violent reality of such an
event. The initial observation of having taken the trench is made somewhat
lightly, as indicated by the slightly flippant ‘I see’. However, the parenthetical
statement acknowledging the macabre aftermath of such an event gives the
final two lines a gravity not felt in their appearance as the first two lines. In
the final line, ‘I see’ now implies insight.

Notes show that he originally wrote the triolet like a script, with the speakers
of the lines indicated in the margin. The location of the trench was also
different. His handwritten copy reads:

Host Speaking:- We’ve taken a trench

Near Oviliers, I see,
Along with the French.
We’ve taken a trench
myself thinking:- (Oh, the bodies! The stench!) <-- Italics
H. Speaking:- Would you have some more tea?
We’ve taken a trench
Near Oviliers I see.15

Harvey later crossed out these cues. By reading the poem with the cues still
in place, we see the poet as a participant in the scene, possibly imagining
himself home from the front, as he was from August 1915-July 1916 when he
receiving officer training. In this situation, his non-combatant host’s casual
remarks about the capture of the trench are opposed by Harvey’s knowledge
– which parentheses indicate that he thinks but does not speak – of the truth
27
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

of what happens when a trench is taken. This is further reinforced as the 1/5th
Gloucesters did attack near Oviliers in July 1916 while Harvey was away from
the front, resulting in the death of his friend Lieutenant R.E. Knight.16

Changes in the poem’s final draft further suggest POW guilt. Prior to
publication, ‘Oviliers’ was replaced by ‘Combles’. 1/5th Gloucesters
made gains near Combles during the battle of the Somme, just after
Harvey’s capture.17 While news from the front was officially restricted
by the Germans, POWs followed the war by questioning new arrivals.
J. A. L. Caunter, a 1st Gloucester who was with Harvey at Crefeld
Offiziersgefangenenlager, claimed that officers on parole in the local villages
could covertly obtain copies of The Times from villagers.18 Caunter added
that POWs knew most news even before new arrivals told it to them.19 The
attack near Combles on 27 August 1916 was a large effort that resulted
in the 1/5th Gloucesters capturing a trench along with 30 Germans and
inflicting an estimated 200 casualties, while suffering 17 killed, 86 wounded,
and 11 missing – casualty figures not likely to escape notice even by POWs
in Germany.20 Harvey’s changing of ‘Oviliers’ to ‘Combles’, reflected that
while the fighting continued for his comrades in the trenches, he and other
prisoners were at the liberty to do such things as relax with afternoon
tea. Harvey reported that afternoon tea was a daily occurrence held after
sporting events at Gütersloh Offiziersgefangenenlager, the camp he was at
when the attack near Combles occurred.21

Reading the poem with this in mind, one can imagine an officer hosting
tea in a POW camp reporting the news of these gains, initially glad of the
victory. Yet, mention of trench warfare causes the host and his companions
to internally reflect on the true horror of the event, from which they are now
spared. He breaks the silence by offering more tea, speaking again of the
trench’s capture with the somberness brought by personal experience, and
the guilt of not having participated. The parentheses show that dreadful
facts need not be stated aloud; the tea-drinkers all know it, and so they
continue their tea, trying not to think too deeply on it. The parenthesis may
even indicate an attempt by the speaker to suppress traumatic memories of
trench combat, or perhaps that focusing on the simple task at hand – offering
more tea to his guests – is allowing him to repress thoughts that sit below the
surface. The poem certainly shows that Harvey saw some ignominy in being
a non- participant in the fighting. As a POW and now hors de combat, he
couldn’t help but feel that ignominy reflected back on himself, a feeling that
fellow POWs could relate to.
28
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Were it not for the rescue of Harvey’s papers, these in-depth readings of
his POW poems showing hints of the guilt felt by First World War officer
POWs would not be possible. Though Harvey’s poems as published give a
unique insight in to the lives of First World War POWs, only through his
manuscript drafts can we explore ideas and emotions that he chose not
to publish, either because he did not want to fully disclose these feelings
publicly, or simply for reasons of poetic form and readability. Harvey’s
papers are helping us to give the First World War POW experience the
same treatment through literary scholarship that the trench experience has
been given. Not only can his literary archive expand our understanding of
this heretofore understudied aspect of the war, it is also allows us to seek a
greater appreciation of one of the war’s unique poets.

Notes
1
The typescript, originally titled ‘Will Harvey – A Romance’ has been published as The
Lost Novel of F. W. Harvey – A War Romance (Stroud: The History Press, 2014).
2
Lisa Stead, ‘Introduction’, The Boundaries of the Literary Archive - Reclamation
and Representation, ed. Carrie Smith and Lisa Stead (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing
Limited, 2013), 3.
3
George Frances Helm, ‘Introduction’, 5th Gloucester Gazette, ed. George Frances
Helm, post-war bound reprint (Gloucester: John Jennings, [undated]), iv.
4
W. G. Gibson, ed., The Listening Post 2 (30 August 1915), The Listening Post 6 (20
October 1915), http://www.amdigital.co.uk/m-collections/collection/the-first-world-war-
visual-perspectives-and-narratives/ (accessed 30 July 2013).
5
E. B. Osborn, ‘Trench Journals’, The Times Literary Supplement (London, 12 October
1916), 769 (accessed 5 April 2013).
6
Contemporary spelling, it is now known as Krefeld.
7
Walter A. Lunden, ‘Captivity Psychosis among Prisoners of War’, Journal of Criminal
Law and Criminology, 39 (1949), 721–33: 725.
8
F. W. Harvey, Comrades in Captivity - A Record of Life in Seven German Prison Camps
[1920] (Coleford: Douglas McLean Publishing, 2010), 40.
9
Harvey, Comrades in Captivity, 51.
10
Ibid., 51–52.
11
Ibid., 52.
12
F. W. Harvey, Gloucestershire Friends: Poems from a German Prison Camp (London:
Sidgwick & Jackson, 1917), 17.
13
F. W. Harvey, ‘Gloucestershire Friends – Poems from a German Prison Camp’
(manuscript), Gloucestershire Archives (henceforth GA), F.W. Harvey Collection
(henceforth FWH), D12912/21/3/Notebook 2.
14
Harvey, Gloucestershire Friends, 44.
15
Harvey, ‘Gloucestershire Friends’ (manuscript), GA, FWH, D12912/2/1/3/Notebook 2.
16
‘1/5th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment War Diary, 1914-1918’ (typed copy), 1920,
Soldiers of Gloucestershire Museum Archives (henceforth SoGM).
17
1/5th Battalion War Diary’, SoGM.
29
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

18
J.A.L. Caunter, 13 Days - The Chronicle of an Escape from a German Prison (London:
G. Bell and Sons, 1918), 31.
19
Caunter, 41.
20
‘1/5th Battalion War Diary’, SoGM.
21
Harvey, Comrades in Captivity, 91.

30
‘A revolver to Charon’s Head’:
Robert Graves and Survival
CHARLES MUNDYE

Just four days before his twenty-first birthday, on 20 July 1916, Captain
Robert Graves was preparing to support an assault on High Wood during
the Battle of the Somme. Whilst running for cover through a cemetery, he
was hit by shell shrapnel in the leg and chest. He moved by stretcher-bearers
to an old German dressing station at the recently-captured Mametz Wood,
where he was left for dead. His Colonel wrote immediately to Graves’s
parents to say that their son was very gallant, and had died of wounds.

The next day Graves was found, despite the night’s neglect, to be not dead
after all, though it took until 5 August and the Court Circular in the Times
newspaper for the story to be put officially straight: ‘Captain Robert Graves,
Royal Welsh Fusiliers, officially reported died of wounds, wishes to inform
his friends that he is recovering from his wounds at Queen Alexandra’s
Hospital, Highgate.’1

It is likely that this early brush with death saved Robert Graves’s life. He was
so seriously wounded that, despite a brief return to the Somme in February
1917, he didn’t find himself in a place of extreme front-line danger again for
the rest of the war, although he was not finally demobilised until early 1919.
In the immediate aftermath of this near-death experience Graves seemed at
least to be in remarkably good spirits in his poetry and in his letters, writing
to Edward Marsh with a whimsical account of his near-death experience. On
the way to Hades and crossing Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, he writes:

Then I strode away, held a revolver to Charon’s head, climbed into

the boat and so home. I gave him a Rouen note for 50cm which I
didn’t want particularly. Remained Cerberus whose three heads were,
I noticed, mastiff, dalmatian and dachshund. He growled furiously
and my revolver was empty, and I’d no ammunition. Happy thought:
honeyed cakes and poppy seed. But none was handy; however, I had
an excellent substitute – Army biscuit smeared with Tickler’s ‘plum
and apple’ and my little morphia tablets carefully concealed in the
appetizing conserve.2
31
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Later in his life Robert Graves was to become famous amongst other things
for his accounts of the Greek myths. Here, his scenario layers contemporary
warfare with the classically mythological. The same scenario also provides
Graves with the substance of a poem, titled ‘Escape’, in which one notable
addition to the prose reverie is the intercession on his behalf of the Queen of
the Underworld, who presides over death, but who here grants life-from-death:

    Oh, may Heaven bless

Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake
And, stooping over me, for Henna’s sake
Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back
Breathless, with leaping heart along the track.3

With this addition he plants a seed of an idea about the significance of

the goddess figure, which thirty years later bloomed into one of the most
extraordinary books of the twentieth century: Graves’s The White Goddess,
subtitled ‘A historical grammar of poetic myth’, and published in the
aftermath of the Second World War in 1948. Proserpine in this poem is an
early manifestation of one aspect of his triple goddess theory: the goddess as
mother, bride, and layer-out in death. Fran Brearton is surely right in seeing
this much later book as engaging ‘if obliquely, with the politics of the 1940s,
and thus, over its shoulder, with the politics of the Great War and inter-war
period.’4

Graves signed up as a young volunteer in August 1914, just a matter of

days after his nineteenth birthday, and straight from school. His first
collection, Over the Brazier (1916) is in two parts: firstly ‘Poems Written at
Charterhouse 1910–1914’, consisting of schoolboy poems which demonstrate
an extraordinary precocity of talent, and then part 2, ‘Poems Written Before
La Bassée – 1915’, in which the schoolboy attempts the transition to soldier,
and negotiates the related movement from a kind of innocence to experience,
and from home life to life at the Front.

Graves’s next collection, Goliath and David, contains one of his most
anthologised poems, ‘A Dead Boche’, in which a transformation from
death into a kind of macabre life makes the paradox of war all the more
immediately vivid:

To-day I found in Mametz Wood

A certain cure for lust of blood:
32
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,

In a great mess of things unclean,
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.5

The metamorphosis of the dead corpse into grotesque material life comes
through his seemingly active presence – he sits, he scowls, he stinks, he
dribbles. This is poetry that embodies paradox and metamorphosis. Death
comes unexpectedly out of life, and life out of death in ways that are
characteristic of a naturally mythological imagination at work.

Graves encountered the corpses that inspired this poem whilst employed in
recovering the dead from Mametz Wood. The preceding battle was one of
the bloodiest on the Somme, and the 38th (Welsh) Infantry Division, tasked
with taking the wood, lost 4,000 men in the process. Two other notable
poets were involved at Mametz: David Jones, and Siegfried Sassoon. Graves
and Sassoon, both Officers in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, had first met and
become close friends in November 1915 at Béthune. By July 1916 they were
in different Battalions, but stationed on the Somme near enough to each
other for them to meet on 14 July. The companion poem to ‘A Dead Boche’,
written at the same time, provides an instance of the two opposite impulses
in Graves’s war poetry. ‘Letter to S.S. from Mametz Wood’, later titled
‘Familiar Letter to Siegfried Sassoon’, is a sort of generic hybrid between
poem and letter, imagining a world beyond war where friendship and poetry
alike might flourish:

In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest a while,

We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile
With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs,
And live on bilberry tart and eggs6

A later poem, however, written in about 1924 to Sassoon, or, rather, Sassoon’s
double with the soubriquet Captain Abel Wright, gives a much more complex
account of their post-war relationship. Graves creates his own double named
‘Richard Rolls’, and Rolls suggests that he did in fact die in 1916 on the date
of Graves’s birthday (24 July), and was replaced by a double who looked
exactly the same but was not him. Similarly, Rolls speculates that Sassoon’s
double Wright may not actually have survived his earlier heroic actions:
33
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

And I don’t know for sure, but I suspect

That you were dead too, killed at the Rectangle
One bloody morning of the same July,
The time that something snapped and sent you Berserk:
You ran across alone, with covering fire
Of a single rifle, routing the Saxons out
With bombs and yells and your wild eye; and stayed there
In careless occupation of the trench
For a full hour, reading, by all that’s mad,
A book of pastoral poems! Then, they say,
Then you walked slowly back and went to sleep
Without reporting; that was the occasion,
No doubt, they killed you: it was your substitute
Strolled back and laid him down and woke as you7

Wright is the literary double of Sassoon, whose actions encapsulate the

absurd paradoxes of war, reading pastoral poetry in the midst of a single-
handed attack on the enemy, a double who then didn’t, as he thought he did,
survive, but was replaced by his own double. These are perhaps not so much
questions of identity as expressions of the uncertainty of knowing anything
for sure again, about oneself, about others; expressions of fracture, of
division, of discontinuity even where things might appear to be normal.

In Goodbye to All That (1929), Graves’s autobiographical account of his

younger self, he claims that in one of their earliest meetings in 1915 Sassoon
took him to task for the realism of Graves’s war poetry:

In return he showed me some of his own poems. One of them began:

    Return to greet me, colours that were my joy,
    Not in the woeful crimson of men slain....
This was before Siegfried had been in the trenches.
I told him, in my old-soldier manner, that he would soon change
his style.8

Graves was the younger of the two, but at this stage more experienced in
war, and therefore, he maintains, more advanced in finding an appropriate
poetic register to describe war. Such an exchange may or may not
have happened in quite this way, and the unreliability of memory and
autobiography is part of the shaping motivation for Graves’s memoir.
Throughout, uncertainty is the only thing that is certain.
34
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

By 1918 Sassoon had indeed changed his style, and was turning the tables by
taking Graves to task for being short on anger and feeling in certain poems
that were addressing subjects other than war, and the pity of it. Indeed,
writing to Wilfred Owen in December 1917, Graves had exclaimed: ‘For
God’s sake cheer up and write more optimistically – the war’s not ended yet
but a poet should have a spirit above wars.’9 Countering Sassoon’s criticisms
in a letter of August 1918, Graves reinforces the sentiment expressed in the
letter to Owen:

I can’t write otherwise than I am now except with hypocrisy for I am

bloody happy and bloody young (with only very occasional lapses)
and passionate anger is most ungrateful. And I can’t afford to stop in
these penurious days and anyhow my ‘antique silk and flower brocade’
continue to please the seventeen-year-old girls and other romantics for
whom they are intended: and why not? Worrying about the war is no
longer a sacred duty with me: on the contrary, neither my position as a
cadet instructor nor my family duties permit it.10

Yet, there is as much, if not more, significance in the parenthesis here as

there is in the rest of the letter, which protests too much, has too much the
air of a studied public persona interested in audiences and bank balances
and duty, which is shoring up the interior horror contained in the brackets.

Graves deliberately did for his own reputation as a war poet. Even by the
second edition of Over the Brazier he was already starting the process
of editing his war poetry out, and by the time of the later editions of his
Collected Poems he cut out virtually all of his early war poems. By 1941, in
the early stages of the next war, Graves was making it clear that he wanted
to leave his own ‘war poems’ behind as ‘too obviously written during the
war poetry boom’.11 The older Graves was fundamentally sceptical about
war poetry, seeing it as a specific genre made possible by the circumstances
of one war alone, and indeed one poetic style alone – the Georgian style.
Poets are rarely the best judges, or editors, of their own work, and we
should forgive the old soldier his prejudices against poems about a subject
that remained deeply painful to him, a pain intensified by the loss of his
son David during World War Two on active duty for the Royal Welch
Fusiliers in Burma in March 1943. These next few anniversary years,
however, afford us a good opportunity to re-evaluate the importance and
significance of Graves’s early war poems, to bring back to life once again
the young poet who was nearly killed on the Somme in 1916, with all due
35
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

respect to the old poet who had such a long and flourishing career until his
death in Mallorca in 1985.

Notes
1
Anon, ‘Court Circular.’ The Times [London, England] 5 Aug. 1916: 9. The Times
Digital Archive. Web. 26 Mar. 2014.
2
Robert Graves, letter to Edward Marsh, 7 August 1916, In Broken Images: Selected
Letters of Robert Graves
1914–1946, ed. by Paul O’Prey (London: Hutchinson, 1982), 59.
3
Robert Graves, ‘Escape’, from Goliath and David (1916) in Robert Graves: The
Complete Poems, ed. by Beryl Graves and Dunstan Ward (London: Penguin, 2003), 28.
4
Fran Brearton, The Great War in Irish Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003),
96.
5
Robert Graves, ‘A Dead Boche’, The Complete Poems, 27.
6
Robert Graves, ‘Familiar Letter to Siegfried Sassoon’, from Fairies and Fusiliers (1917)
in The Complete Poems, 38–39.
7
Robert Graves, ‘A Letter from Wales’, from Welchman’s Hose (1925) in The Complete
Poems, 232–37.
8
Robert Graves, Goodbye to All That (London: Jonathan Cape, 1929), 224.
9
Robert Graves, letter to Wilfred Owen, December 1917, in Wilfred Owen, Collected
Letters, ed. Harold Owen and John Bell (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), 596.
10
Robert Graves, letter to Siegfried Sassoon, 26 August 1918, In Broken Images:
Selected Letters of Robert
Graves 1914–1946, 101.
11
Robert Graves, ‘War Poetry in this War’, Listener, 667 (23 October 1941), 566–67
(566).

36
Richard Aldington’s War Poetry:
Images, Impressions and Impact
MICHAEL COPP

Aldington’s best war poetry offers objective treatment of the front’s realities …
[and] a much wider range of immediate sensation and a more realistic
perception of the war than do the verses of most of the trench poets.
(Fred D. Crawford, British Poets of the Great War, 1988)1

Aldington’s war poetry is strikingly varied. In a series of thematic polarities

he juxtaposes the brutal and the fragile, the military and the civilian, order
and chaos, a serene Hellenism and a stark curative realism, isolation and
togetherness, love-making and death. Throughout Aldington’s war poetry
we keep encountering four major themes. Three of them, an idealised
Hellenic past, a sensitive response to the natural world, and love of woman,
often sensual, enable Aldington to escape from the fourth, the brutal reality
of war, by means of memory, imagination or wish-fulfilment.

His war poetry begins with a handful of poems written in London when
still a civilian. He explores his active war experience for the most part, but
not exclusively, in two major collections, Images of War (1919) and Images of
Desire (1919). Post-war, his poetry is not wholly purged of war memories, as
the longer poems he wrote in the 1920s and 1930s testify. Nor do his novel,
Death of a Hero (1929), and his collection of war stories, Paths of Glory (1930)
mark an end to haunting recollections of the war.

Four short poems, written in 1915 and 1916, show Aldington in true imagist
mode, characterised by their concision, concreteness and clarity. They provide
impressionistic glimpses of contemporary London with ominous hints of fear
and destruction hanging over normal civilian life. ‘Sunsets’ ends with the lines:

And the wind

Blowing over London from Flanders
Has a bitter taste.

In ‘Hampstead Heath’ the night sky above the clamour of the pleasure-
seeking crowd is pierced:
37
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

By a swift searchlight, a long white dagger.

And in ‘Sloane Street’ the moon has to compete with:

On the left a searchlight

A silver stream among the stars.

The final stanza points to the paradoxical effect of London’s dimmed street
lamps: wartime conditions allow Londoners to once more appreciate the
true beauty of the night sky:

London was a rich young man

Burdened with great possessions –
Now, poor in light,
Menaced, and a little frightened,
At length he sees the stars.

‘London’ begins with three short, two or three-line, haiku-like, stanzas,

impressionistically listing either natural phenomena (leaves, a squall, clouds,
wheat fields) or man-made things (a church spire, chimneys, roofs). The
fourth and fifth stanzas continue this theme and introduce a note of anxiety
before the final stanza expresses the premonition that all this beauty could
be wiped out by war:

A pear-tree, a broken white pyramid

In a dingy garden, troubles me
With ecstasy.

At night, the moon, a pregnant woman,

Walks cautiously over the slippery heavens.

And I am tormented,
Obsessed,
Among all this beauty,
With a vision of ruins,
Of walls crumbling into clay.

Aldington enlisted in June 1916, and began his military service with the 11th
Devonshires. In December he was drafted for the Leicestershire Regiment,
and in January 1917 was sent to the 11th Battalion of the Leicestershire
38
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

regiment, a Pioneer battalion. After periods of training in England he was

commissioned in November 1917 as a second lieutenant in the Royal Sussex
Regiment. While serving in France, Aldington wrote to his great friend F.
S. Flint, confident that he had written an important and original body of
war poems:

I have spoken of the war more frankly than almost any other
Englishman […] & when you read Images of War2 […] I think you
will admit that I have by implication written a denunciation of the
war. You must not expect a book of faits divers from me; but anyone
who reads attentively the book […] will see the indignation, the pity,
the anguish underneath. […] [T]hough I may seem absurdly vain
in claiming it, I believe them to be the most sincere war poems yet
written in English.3

After demobilisation in February 1919 he was lodging in London, with no

secure base, was finding it hard to make living and was suffering from severe
depression and self-doubt, as the following letter of 17 May to Flint reveals:

I am going through a really desperate crisis. I have serious doubts

about my talent. […] I’ve lost any confidence. […] My Images of Desire
poems I rate as vulgar. […] My war poems – pooh! What rubbish!4

Images of War was eventually published in April 1919. It is a carefully

planned and clearly structured volume. This concern for purposeful
arrangement informs the trajectory of the sequence. Two framing poems,
‘Proem’ and ‘Epilogue’ bracket three chronologically ordered groups that
can be summarised as training, trenches and trauma. In ‘Proem’ Aldington
voices the problem facing him as a poet struggling to come to grips with
the war:

Each day I grow more restless,

See the austere shape elude me,
Gaze impotently upon a thousand miseries
And am still dumb.

The first two impressionistic stanzas of ‘Machine Guns’ depict the visual
effect of ricocheting bullets, and snapshots of men in and near a trench. In
the third stanza Aldington comments wryly on the necessity for officers to
put on a bold face for the sake of their men’s morale:
39
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Only we two stand upright;

All differences of life and character smoothed out
And nothing left
Save that one foolish tie of caste
That will not let us shrink.

In ‘In the Trenches’, after rejecting exhaustion, fear, loneliness as the destructive
components of war, Aldington introduces a strikingly complex image:

Not that we are weary,

Not that we fear,
Not that we are lonely
Though never alone –
Not these, not these destroy us.

But that each rush and crash

Of mortar shell,
Each cruel bitter shriek of bullet
That tears the wind like a blade,
Each wound on the breast of earth,
Of Demeter, our Mother,
Wound us also,
Sever and rend the fine fabric
Of the wings of our frail souls,
Scatter into dust the bright wings
Of Psyche!

The ordnance of war threatens and destroys not only the soldier’s material
existence, but his spiritual life as well. Psyche works well as a multi-layered
image. In Greek, ‘psyche’ signifies both ‘soul’ and ‘butterfly’. In painting
Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings of a butterfly. This is much
more than Aldington just playing an esoteric game with classical allusions.
Many soldiers would have seen the fragile beauty of a butterfly ‘scattered
into dust’ by a bullet. Thus Aldington concludes with an authentic piece of
war observation.

This stanza is a typical example of Aldington as the sensitive Hellenist,

horrified at war’s destruction of the natural world. The titles of some
of the later poems in this collection testify to Aldington’s state of mind
immediately after the war: ‘Doubt’, ‘Resentment’, ‘Disdain’ and ‘Apathy’.
40
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

In Images of Desire (1919) we find erotic images of sensual love-making side

by side with memories of the losses and horrors of war, as in the short poem
‘Reserve’:

Though you desire me I will still feign sleep

And check my eyes from opening to the day,
For as I lie, thrilled by your gold-dark flesh,
I think of how the dead, my dead, once lay.

This theme is also present in other poems such as ‘Before Parting’,

‘Daybreak’ and ‘Meditation’.

Aldington’s experiments with the free verse form of the prose poem are
usually omitted from most anthologies of war poetry. This absence is hard
to justify. Seventeen of them are included in The Complete War Poems of
Richard Aldington.5 They are included at the end of The Love of Myrrhine and
Konallis, and Other Prose Poems (1926), and were recycled in the short story
‘Farewell to Memories’ in the collection Roads to Glory (1930), where they
alternate with the prose narrative sections of the story. As Vivien Whelpton
says: ‘the battlefield pieces, particularly when they confine themselves to the
concrete circumstances of a moment’s experience, have a compelling beauty
and pathos’.6 ‘Fatigues’, ‘The Road’, ‘Stand-To’, ‘Landscape’ and ‘Song’ are
particularly effective in this respect. ‘Landscape’ ends with the lines:

Heavy scented the air tonight –

    New-mown hay – a pungent exotic
   Odour – phosgene…
And to-morrow there will be huddled
    Corpses with blue horrible faces
    And foam on their writhed mouths.

In Aldington’s longer post-war poems the war continues to emerge,

often unexpectedly and abruptly, as in the erotic poem A Dream in the
Luxembourg (1930). Aldington recalls aspects of his war experience by
means of a series of rhetorical questions:

How many yellow dead men have I seen?

Carried how many stretchers?
Stood by how many graves – of young men too?
Reported how many casualties?
41
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

The long ambitious poem A Fool i’ the Forest (1924) contains a war section in
which one character, the Conjuror, as Sergeant-Major, brainlessly gives away
the position of the narrator, ‘I’, and another character, Mezzetin. Mezzetin is
killed by an enemy shell and the narrator says:

My heart went icy; I felt sick, sick,

And something vital left me forever.

Then I knew Mezzetin

Was as much to me as life itself;

In this poem Aldington explores his sense of personal disintegration and loss
of his creative powers brought about by the war.

Life Quest (1935) is the last poem of Aldington’s to contain war material. In
one section the poet, strolling by a river in France, suddenly sees the body
of a dead snake lying in the water. This triggers off a sequence of juxtaposed
hallucinatory images, growing in intensity. Aldington abandons all punctuation
as each image rapidly succeeds the previous one: dead snake – dead English
soldier – dead German officer – dead soldiers – dead self – dead snake:

I saw the white belly of the dead snake

And I saw the body of a dead English soldier
Laid like a coloured statue on the fire-step
I saw and the same sickly smell came choking
The body of a young German officer
His face blue-grey like his uniform
I saw the rag-clothed skeletons of Loos
I saw my own body lying white and helpless
Belly turned to the sun
Gently swaying in the water
Under the sunlight where the snake lay
With all the queer taut snake-life gone limp and lost.

Aldington’s most modernist poem, ‘By the King’s Most Excellent Majesty:
A Proclamation’, is inserted into his 1934 novel All Men are Enemies, at the
beginning of Part II. It is notable for its modernist procedures: the language
is fragmentary, discontinuous and elliptical; it lacks rhyme and punctuation;
the word-spacing and lineation are erratic. Each year of the war is
characterised by the choice of a well-known popular song of the period.
42
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

These familiar ditties chart how attitudes develop and are modified by the
war. The mood darkens from one of enthusiastic jingoism from civilians at
the start of the war to one of bleakly cynical resignation and black humour
from the survivors of the war. The satirical impact of the poem gains from
Aldington omitting any personal comments in this collage of excerpts:

1914

don’t want to lose you

    you ought to go your
King and your Country
    kiss you when you come back

1915

   a long way

it’s a long way to go
   a long way
goodbye   farewell
it’s a long long way

1916

I want to go home
   home
take me over the sea
don’t want to die
   home

1917

take the cylinders out of my kidneys

the connecting rod out of my brain
    from under my backbone
assemble   again

1918

I know where they are,

   where they are
43
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

    on the old barbed wire

I’ve seen them I’ve seen them
hanging on the old barbed wire
I’ve seen

1919

and when I die don’t

bury me at all just
pickle my bones
in alcohol
in al-co-hol

GOD SAVE THE KING

In the opening poem of Images of War Aldington was concerned that on

starting to tackle the war as a subject for his poetry the ‘austere shape’ that
he sought would be difficult to achieve. It does indeed ‘elude’ him here, to be
replaced by this quintessential example of discontinuity, the true ‘shape’ of
the war.

Notes
1
Fred D. Crawford, British Poets of the Great War (Cranbury, NJ: Associated
University Presses), 90-91.
2
Richard Aldington, Images of War (London: Allen & Unwin 1919).
3
Michael Copp, ed., Imagist Dialogues: Letters between Aldington, Flint and Others
(Cambridge: The Lutterworth Press 2009), 228.
4
Copp, ed., Imagist Dialogues, 253-4.
5
Michael Copp, ed., An Imagist at War: The Complete War Poems of Richard Aldington
(Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 2002).
6
Vivien Whelpton, Richard Aldington: Poet, Soldier and Lover 1911-1929 (Cambridge:
The Lutterworth Press 2014), 211.

44
A Cell of One’s Own: Conscientious Objection
and John Rodker’s Narratives of Resistance
EVELYN HEINZ

In the foreword to his 1935 essay collection We Did Not Fight: 1914-18
Experiences of War Resisters, Julian Bell summarises the position of the C.
O. in World War I as follows:

The position of the conscientious objector was one of simple

resistance; a conviction that it was impossible for anyone of
intellectual and moral integrity to surrender to the discretion of fools
and scoundrels engaged in the enterprise of destroying civilisation.1

With his collection of first-hand accounts, Bell’s aim is to shed light on the
unwritten history of Britain’s conscientious objectors and to pay tribute
to their acts of resistance: ‘That pacifists and conscientious objectors were
not cowards I think these narratives will make clear.’2 One of the narratives
included in Bell’s book is the essay ‘Twenty Years After’ by John Rodker, a
writer, publisher and translator associated with Modernism. A conscientious
objector in World War I, Rodker spent the period between 1916 and
1918 either in prison or on the run from the authorities. In his essay he
reconsiders the implications of pacifist resistance some twenty years after the
war, arguing that ‘[w]hatever the function of the pacifist, we may rest sure
it was a valuable one, if only as a brake on the sadistic juggernaut of war.’3
Although the historical and political significance of Britain’s conscientious
objectors is acknowledged today, the literature produced by war resisters
has so far received much less attention than the work of Britain’s celebrated
War Poets. With reference to John Rodker’s little known narratives of
conscientious objection, particularly the poem ‘A CO’s Biography’ and the
novel Memoirs of Other Fronts, this essay begins to explore a hitherto under-
appreciated body of pacifist war writing.

During the war, John Rodker attempted to evade conscription, was arrested
and imprisoned and later wrote about his experiences as a conscientious
objector.4 He wrote and rewrote the narrative of his resistance over almost
fifteen years. The first version, possibly started as early as 1917 but certainly
completed by January 1918, was a long poem entitled ‘A CO’s Biography’.
45
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

The poem remained unpublished, apart from two stanzas which appeared
with slight alterations under the title ‘From A Biography’ in the volume
Hymns (1920) and as ‘Two Prison Poems’ in Rodker’s Collected Poems 1912-
1925 (1930).5 Dartmoor, a fictionalised prose account of the period during
which Rodker carried out ‘Work of National Importance’, building roads
on the moor, first appeared in a French translation by Ludmilla Savitzky,
serialised in La Revue Européenne between October and December 1923.6
The original English text was later incorporated into the novel Memoirs
of Other Fronts, published anonymously in 1932. Rodker’s friendship with
Isaac Rosenberg, with whom he communicated intermittently throughout
the war, further entices us to look upon Rodker’s prison cell memoirs as a
complementary discourse to Rosenberg’s trench poetry. Yet, if what we are
looking for is a tale, in Bell’s words, of ‘simple resistance’ and ‘intellectual
and moral integrity’ we will be disappointed. What makes Rodker’s
narratives of his resistance unique is that they are uniquely unheroic. His
strongly autobiographical and introspective approach rather focusses on the
conflicting drives and desires which constantly undermine the individual’s
attempts at acting with integrity, while his complex psychological portraits
of the conscientious objector challenge the notion of pacifism as a stance of
‘simple resistance’.

When the Conscription Act was passed in early 1916, Rodker initially
‘refused to believe in [it]’ and made little effort to stay hidden from the
authorities.7 The novelist Dorothy Richardson remembers Rodker’s
behaviour during that time as positively reckless:

I have a vivid memory of R. at the beginning of conscription when he

was sleeping every night in a different house to evade registration. A
part of us were strolling about in Brunswick Square gardens, when
someone said to R. ‘Look out, there’s a military policeman prowling
around.’ ‘Where?’ asked R. all alert & very debonair. Having identified
the hawk, he strolled up to him with a slight limp & a dangling cigarette
& asked for a light. Soon afterwards we all silently stole away.8

Richardson’s anecdote corroborates Rodker’s depiction of the period in his

fictionalised autobiography Memoirs of Other Fronts. The novel consists
of three parts. The first and third parts recount events in the narrator’s life
which take place after the war. These two narratives are based on Rodker’s
relationship with his lover Nancy Cunard and the aftermath of his failed
marriage to Mary Butts. Couched between these two narratives is the
46
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

section ‘A C.O.’s War 1914-1925’ which contains an account of Rodker’s

experiences as a conscientious objector. Here, Rodker describes how, during
the first months of conscription, London’s conscientious objectors had
somehow become invisible in plain sight. The ‘conchies’, he writes, were
able to go on with business as usual for a while because they blended in
with other marginalised social groups, the ‘boys, stray Russians, Japanese,
Colonials, Americans, Central Europeans, rejects’, who were excluded
from the business of war because they were foreign or deemed physically
unfit.9 The link between conscientious objection and foreignness is of some
significance to the Memoirs. Rodker presents the C.O. as a type of ‘stranger’
and his resistance as a version of his narrator’s experiences of foreignness
in the other parts of the novel. While, at the beginning of the novel, the
narrator articulates his feeling of foreignness in terms of a national identity,
stating ‘[i]n Paris I feel English, in London a foreigner,’ the second part
portrays the C.O. as intellectually restless, perpetually at odds with his
environment and yearning for a place where he can feel at home.10

The alienation of the conscientious objector from his social environment is

described in great detail in Rodker’s first war resister narrative, the poem
‘A CO’s Biography’, which chronicles the events from Rodker’s second
arrest in April 1917 to his release from Wandsworth Prison six months
later. With frequent references to recognisable London locations, Rodker
constructs a psychological geography of his hometown from which the
subject of the ‘Biography’ becomes increasingly removed as his arrest and
imprisonment relegate him to a position of social isolation. ‘[T]hrough a
chink’ in the tumbril transporting him to prison the C.O. spies an already
intangible Holborn, sees Bow Street and Oxford Street revealed ‘strip by
strip’, fragments of his former life gleaned through a peephole.11 Thrust into
a crowded guard room alongside criminals whose mere sight terrifies him, he
‘hides behind the thought of last Tuesday and Piccadilly,’ clutching onto the
memory of a life from which he has been so suddenly and brutally wrested.
Only ‘last Tuesday’ he was among the revellers in Piccadilly, now the women
on Oxford Street ‘look with hostility upon him, avoid him, refuse him cover.’
Already isolated within his social environment, the open spaces of the city
no longer hold any attraction for him and the prospect of prison becomes a
relief: ‘Nothing mattered now, come quickly prison.’12

Drawing on his own experience of solitary confinement at Wandsworth,

Rodker’s poem fluctuates between the two poles of the prison cell as a cage
and as a place of refuge. At the beginning of his imprisonment, the C.O.
47
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

is described as ‘a spider inside a tumbler, a miserable gannet caught by

wire’.13 The feeling of entrapment inside the cell is amplified by the location
of Wandsworth Prison just south of Battersea and Chelsea and therefore
in taunting proximity to the neighbourhoods that formed the centre of
Rodker’s social life at the time. In ‘Biography’ he describes the painful
experience of being so close and yet so far from his familiar environment,
still able to see the well-known landmarks of South London through the
window of his cell but no longer able to participate in the life that takes
place around them. He sees the railway station at Clapham Junction, where
the trains ‘slyly’ slide in and out of his field of vision, mocking his own
immobility.14 The towers of the Lots Road Power Station in the distance
make him think of his lover ‘Eveline, who lived under them’ but his envy of
her freedom consumes his romantic feelings for her.15 Inspired with erotic
longing by the ‘smell of his armpits’ he searches his memory for a moment of
tenderness with his lover but is unable to call up the desired image:

He had forgotten moon and stars and remembered her only to

hate her.
Life had ebbed from him, his past was forgotten – it was a story read
in a book.16

Rodker’s poem presents the isolation of the C.O. in solitary confinement as

a break with the narratives that connect him to the world outside the cell, a
loss of his ‘biography’. No longer able to satisfy his social and sexual needs
by reminiscing about his past, the C.O.’s desires become projected onto the
interior of the prison cell instead. His erotic longing finds an unlikely object
in ‘[a] plaited skein of hemp that hung on the wall’, which he addresses as
‘Gretchen’ and ‘Margaret beloved’ in a bizarre love poem.17 Casting himself
in the role of a love-stricken Faust, the C.O. exclaims: ‘I stroke you, lay you
against my face – / Your hair is fine gold, and you hid my face in corn.’18
The metaphorical re-imagining of confinement in prison as being held in
the binding embrace of a lover adds an interesting new aspect to Rodker’s
psychology of imprisonment but the weird object-focussed eroticism that
suddenly supplants the theme of pacifist resistance strikes us as odd and out
of place.

The mingling of the problem of conscientious objection with themes of

sexual longing and frustration is a characteristic of all of Rodker’s texts
about resistance. The critical press picked up on this particular feature in
their reaction to Rodker’s Memoirs, with one reviewer describing the novel
48
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

as ‘[dealing] mainly with the reactions of a sex-maniac’.19 Another deplored

its ‘pitiful frankness’ and added: ‘[T]he reader would like to be spared
these intimate confessions, he feels like a deity to whom the author makes
a continual sacrifice of his proper pride.’20 The space devoted to the C.O.’s
erotic fantasies in the ‘Biography’ or to the narrator’s bowel movements
in the third part of the Memoirs indeed makes for some whimsical and
sometimes uncomfortable reading. Rodker continually goes against our
expectations of what is the ‘proper’ story to tell of conscientious objection
by depicting the resister as obsessed with his physical needs and unable to
make up his own mind. The pitiful climax of Rodker’s pathetic narratives of
resistance is reached when he presents us with the image of the imprisoned
C.O. who does not want to leave his cell:

If I but opened the door I could walk out.

I do not want to open the door.
I am safer in this cell than in the spidery galleries, the aery dome,
I hate the exercise rings – black cinders – that circling make me giddy.
Bed is good though and the coarse sheets – and my pied coverlet,
hand woven – brick reds, yellows and greens:
I like the sewing and the Bible’s interesting:
And if I opened the door I could walk out.21

The prison cell is transformed from the site of the C.O.’s suffering to a place
of homeliness and quiet domesticity. In the Memoirs, this theme is carried
even further as the prison cell becomes a place of retrospective longing. Upon
his release from prison the narrator desires to be once more ‘shut tight in
the small cell, in warm gas light, with my book, all of me aware that soon
it would be time for the eight o’clock bed-time bell’.22 Rodker’s depiction
of the imprisoned C.O. who gladly accepts, even desires his confinement is
problematic since it does not square with the narrative of ‘simple resistance’
and heroic suffering that most supporters of conscientious objection wanted
to tell. This was conceivably one of the reasons why the more whimsical
sections of ‘A CO’s Biography’ were never published and why Rodker had
such difficulties placing the Memoirs with a publisher. Indeed, Bernard Noël
Langdon-Davies who rejected Rodker’s manuscript of the Memoirs despite his
pacifist leanings did so on the grounds that ‘it would put up the backs of those
who dislike and those who sympathise with Conscientious Objectors alike’.23

Despite scenes of exemplary cruelty against conscientious objectors, such

as the gruelling depiction of a prisoner being force-fed in the second part
49
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

of the Memoirs, there is undoubtedly a degree to which Rodker refuses

to engage with certain moral and political questions that arise from his
narratives. His focus on the C.O.’s struggle with his divided self tends to
overshadow the implications of the war resister’s experience for the wider
social and political sphere. Certainly by the time Rodker was writing the
Memoirs his approach was coloured by his interest in psychoanalysis and the
models psychoanalytic theory provided for understanding war and pacifist
resistance in terms of drives and desires anchored in the psyche rather than
on a political plane. Via the work of psychoanalyst Edward Glover, Rodker
arrived at the conviction that ‘wars are not a matter of rulers, diplomats,
markets, but the projection on to others of urges in the self so dynamic that
failing such an issue, they must end in the disintegration of their host’.24
Rodker’s narratives of resistance allow us to witness the ‘disintegration’ of
such a self in the figure of the conscientious objector at war with himself.
In this Rodker’s literary angle on conscientious objection is unique: he
approaches the topic of pacifist resistance from a vantage-point outside the
dominant discourse which sought to redeem conscientious objectors on the
same terms that constituted the overblown rhetoric of warfare, that is to say,
a discourse evolving around the abstract concepts of courage, honour and
integrity. ‘A CO’s Biography’ and Memoirs of Other Fronts are no tales of
‘simple resistance’ but present the C.O.’s struggle in all its psychologically
complexity. Bearing testimony to the fact that, in Julian Bell’s words, ‘[t]
he pacifist is fighting too, but on another front,’25 Rodker’s narratives of
resistance merit our attention not only as documents of the war years as
experienced by a conscientious objector but also as works of great literary
appeal and originality.

Notes
1
Julian Bell, ed., We Did Not Fight: 1914-18 Experiences of War Resisters, (London:
Cobden-Sanderson, 1935), xvi.
2
Ibid., xii.
3
Ibid., 284f.
4
For a detailed outline of Rodker’s cat-and-mouse game with the authorities during the
war, see Andrew Crozier’s introduction to his edition of Rodker’s Poems & Adolphe 1920
(Manchester: Carcanet, 1996), vii-xxiii.
5
‘A CO’s Biography’ is included in full in Rodker’s Poems & Adolphe 1920, ed. Crozier,
115-122.
6
In 1926 Savitzky’s translation of Dartmoor also appeared in book form under the
imprint of the Parisian publishing house Sagittaire.
7
John Rodker, Memoirs of Other Fronts (London: Putnam, 1932), 111.
8
Letter from Dorothy Richardson to Peggy Kirkaldy, 1st November 1943, Windows

50
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

on Modernism: Selected Letters of Dorothy Richardson, ed. Gloria G. Fromm (London:

University of Georgia Press, 1995), 484.
9
Rodker, Memoirs, 77.
10
Ibid., p. 16.
11
Rodker, Poems & Adolphe, 116.
12
Ibid., 119.
13
Ibid, 119.
14
Ibid., 119.
15
Ibid., 121.
16
Ibid., 119.
17
Ibid., 119.
18
Ibid., 120.
19
Review by ‘G.M.H.’ in G . K.’s Weekly (21 May 1932).
20
Review by L. P. Hartley in The Week-End Review (11 June 1932).
21
Rodker, Poems & Adolphe, 120.
22
Rodker, Memoirs, 150f.
23
Typescript of rejection letter from Langdon-Davies, 20th March 1931, located in the
John Rodker Papers at the Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas, Austin, Box 36,
Folder 4.
24
John Rodker, ‘War and Peace’, New English Weekly (3 August 1933), 379.
25
Bell, We Did Not Fight, p. 285.

51
Poetics of Resistance: H.D.’s Sea Garden
ARGHA BANERJEE

In her poem ‘The Tribute’, the American poet Hilda Doolittle – better
known as H.D. – dons ‘only the thinnest of Hellenistic masks’1 while
alluding to the ongoing war. First published in the Egoist (November 1916),
the lyric underlines the profound degenerative impact of the war on both the
female artist and her aesthetic creed. Art itself is a casualty of the war, as
the prophetic voice warns in the poem: ‘squalor has entered and taken our
songs/ and we haggle and cheat...’2 Poetry, as H.D. had noted in a letter to
William Carlos Williams during that time, is ‘a very sacred thing’,3 and she
saw the war as a direct threat to her aesthetic philosophy. Her anxiety during
those war years, as Gary Burnett notes, is embodied in Hermione’s reflection
in Asphodel, expressing horror at, and distance from, the intellectual
bankruptcy of contemporary womankind:

How horrid to hate them, all the women who went on talking as if they
were enjoying it, and the worst of it was one felt they were enjoying
it. It was horrible of her not to but how could she help it? How could
she help her vivid mind not seeing? Her mind had been trained to see.
Cultivated. For just the horror? Women talking, picking cotton, making
bandages. O God, don’t they see what they’re making them for?4

Anxious to preserve her ‘cultivated’ sensibility in times of flux and change,

the poetic voice in ‘The Tribute’ finds herself in the company of a select
minority of artists, consecrated to the true worship of the ‘sacred’ and
undermined by dominant militant ideology. The ‘squalor’-drenched city –
ridden by war hysteria – is portrayed by H.D. as a desecrated one, more so,
as ‘the boys have gone out of the city’5 to offer their pilgrimage to the ‘god of
war’, and there is ‘no voice to rebuke’6 the patriarchal ideology that claims
innocent young lives at the Front.

In most of her poems and translations composed during the war years,
H.D. protests against a conflict that has not only consumed the lives of
artists, but also has endangered the aesthetic ideals of an entire generation.
As an avant-garde aesthete, she is inevitably drawn into the vortex, and
several of her poems testify to her position of being an ‘artistic incarnation
of that destructiveness’.7 For H.D., the war is a clash between ideologies
52
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

and principles. It is a struggle of the destructive militant force with the

enduring principles of love, beauty, survival and preservation. Akin to
Virginia Woolf’s critique of the war in Three Guineas, H.D. through her
poetry ‘affirms the need for a female response to the destructiveness of a
militarist ideology which does not accept the language or assumptions of
that ideology’.8

In spite of her enduring poetic message, it is interesting to note that H.D.

is normally not regarded as a war poet. With the solitary exception of War
Poetry: An Introductory Reader (1995), she is absent from most poetry
anthologies of the First World War. Perhaps the grounds for her exclusion
lie in the fact that her verse does not directly deal with the ‘war’. Yet war
serves as an omnipresent backdrop and inspiration. Along with independent
efforts of women poets like Edith Sitwell, Iris Tree, Phyllis M’egroz and
others, H.D. strived to fashion her own unique reaction to the war in verse.
All these poets used allegorical or mythical narratives – occasionally or
predominantly in their war poems – to force an extraordinary critique of the
ongoing hostilities.

H.D.’s poetry affirms that not all women poets were ideologically trapped,
seeking refuge in conventional themes of jingoism or writing sentimental
elegies, as is widely believed. Bearing an unmistakable imprint of the
ongoing hostilities, these poems also call for a different critical approach.
‘To fight (war) in the open’, as H.D. had reflected in Tribute to Freud, is the
unique war of a female artist, striving to preserve her sensibility in chaotic
times of unprecedented change. Rooted in Imagist experimentations, her
poetic exercises in Sea Garden carry traces of emotional devastation and
personal responses to the horrors of the Great War: the sinking of the
Lusitania which she was utterly convinced resulted in the miscarriage of
her first child; the break-up of her marriage with poet Richard Aldington
following his enlistment; the sad demise of her brother Gilbert in France in
1918; the subsequent death of her father; the coincidence of D.H. Lawrence’s
persecution just at the start of her new relationship and finally, the incident
of her flat being bombed towards the end of the war. Immediately following
the war, in 1919, her own life (along with that of her illegitimate child) was
endangered due to an attack of double pneumonia. It was only under the
able care of her friend Annie Winifred Ellerman, following her subsequent
trip to Greece in 1920, that she managed to recuperate from the long ‘series
of shocks’. She was also profoundly unsettled by the deaths of artists such as
Rupert Brooke and Henri Gaudier-Brzeska in 1915. However, her aesthetics
53
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

of grief and horror both subsumes and transcends the private context of her
sorrow in her literary output of this period; while translating Euripides’s
Rhesus during the early years of the war, the artist related her personal grief
to the larger suffering of the soldiers. The grief of a mother who had lost her
child during the war blends into a general maternal bereavement for the loss
of young lives at the Front.

The war years were a period of broken and strained relationships that
intensified an arduous process of self-discovery for H.D. However, amidst
all these tragic personal circumstances of grief, mourning, self-discovery
and personal trauma, her literary activities during the war were brisk and
intense. Some Imagist Poets: An Anthology, published in 1915, carried seven
of her poems: ‘The Pool’, ‘Sea Lily’, ‘Sea Iris’, ‘Oread’, ‘Sea Rose’, ‘The
Garden’ and ‘Orion Dead’. In 1916, besides publishing the Sea Garden, a
compilation of twenty seven poems, and Choruses from the Iphigenia in Aulis,
a translation, H.D. also took over the editorship of The Egoist, as Richard
Aldington had to enlist for the military service. Collected Poems (1925),
compiling both her poems and translations, testify to the prolific nature of
her literary work during these years. Some of her later published works too
were inspired and initiated during the period of the First World War.9

In place of an avant-garde that thrusts itself on the readers, defying any

continuity with the past, H.D. offers a historical basis for her aesthetic
creed. H.D. was not the only artist to turn to the Greek spirit in search
of a suitable metaphor for the ongoing war. War reports on Gallipoli in
various newspapers often referred to the Homeric and the Turkish names
of the sites.10 To H.D., the ‘sacred’ pursuit of the female artist during the
time of the war called for aesthetic endurance and spiritual resilience.
Her poetic acknowledgments of sturdy aquatic flowers in poems like ‘Sea
Rose’, ‘Sea Lily’, ‘Sea Poppies’, ‘Sea Violet’ and ‘Sea Iris’ symbolise such
female resistance against the dominant masculine ideologies of wartime.
Rachel DuPlessis describes these flowers as possessing ‘harsh surprising
beauty, slashed, torn, dashed yet still triumphant and powerful, despite
being wounded, hardened, tested by exposure,’ suggestive of ‘an almost
contemptuous defiance of ease, of simple fashions of ripening.’11 The poet
adores these flowers in comparison with the conventional garden variety,
as they withstand the heavy odds of wave, wind and sand. In spite of being
‘scarred and broken’, these flowers are treasured for having outlived the
adversities of life, an indirect symbolic and Imagist celebration of the
enduring female principles of life.12
54
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

The flowers, as depicted in Sea Garden, are sea-borne and emerge superior
in grace, beauty and endurance when compared with their terrestrial
counterparts. Most poppy poems composed during the years of the war
glorify and symbolise sanctity of human blood and sacrifice, but H.D.’s ‘Sea
Poppies’ has its roots in a different world altogether. These aquatic flowers
serve as symbols of a rare kind of beauty, suggestive of a different artistic
creed, far beyond the conventional aesthetics of the dominant militant
ideology in vogue: ‘Amber husk/fluted with gold, /fruited on the sand/
marked with a rich grain, /...Beautiful, wide-spread, /fire upon leaf, /what
meadow yields/ so fragrant a leaf/ as your bright leaf?’13

The ‘Sea Rose’, as portrayed by H.D. in Sea Garden, emerges superior to the
conventional garden rose. The garden rose, a symbol of nationalism during
the Great War, was widely employed in Victorian arts as an ‘ideal image
of feminine delicacy and vulnerability’.14 However, it is a ‘meagre flower’ in
comparison with H.D.’s sea rose: ‘more precious/than a wet rose/single on a
stem’.15 In a distinctive Imagist vision, the female voice is empowered in the
poem through a rare use of floral imagery:

The sea rose is a sign in terms of which a poetic voice presumes

power and opens a circuit with the reader, who is thus implicated in a
transtemporal project – making the rose out of language, interiorising
the rose in an allegory of desire, within this fiction invoking the rose
in a lineage of invocations – Yeats’s Rosicrucian rose, Browning’s
rose tree, Blake’s sick rose, Waller’s lovely rose, Meleager’s anthology/
garland with Sappho’s roses.16

The interiorisation of the rose as an ‘allegory for desire’ implies an

aesthetic search for an independent female world, beyond the conventional
one envisaged, endorsed and controlled by men. H.D.’s description of
the rose in verse imparts a distinctive cinematic quality to her poetic
narrative as well. Representing a ‘mutilated’ ‘unloved body’, according to
Susan McCabe, the ‘sequenced’ imagery of the poem ‘operates as though
by the shot by shot layering of film’: ‘Rose, harsh rose/ marred and with
stint of petals’.17 Floral imagery not only symbolises female resistance
but also features in H.D.’s veiled attack on remembrance rituals carried
out during the war. The catalogue of flowers in ‘The Tribute’ mocks at
the futility of such an exercise: ‘For the lads who drew apart/the scholar
and poet we place/wind-flower or lily or wreath/of ivy and crocus shaft,/
and the lads who went to slay/with passion and thirst/ we give roses and
55
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

flowers of bay.’18 Closely allied with the floral symbolism is the central
metaphor of the garden in Sea Garden. Both ‘Sheltered Garden’ and
‘Garden’, written during the war period, explore the sense of female
entrapment in the cultivated space of life: ‘I have had enough/I gasp for
breath.’19 The conventional female resources of sustenance are discarded
by the poet – ‘I have had enough!/ border-pinks, clove pinks, wax-lilies, /
herbs, sweet-cress’20 – in preference for a more active role. The ‘Sheltered
Garden’ almost persuasively and symbolically communicates the ‘dialectic
between actively carving out and masochistically identifying with torn
bodies’.21 Both these poems provide images of protest, deeply resentful of
the claustrophobic existence of the female intelligentsia during wartime.
Both celebrate ‘alternate landscapes of psychic and erotic power’ in times
of ‘disruption and displacement.’22

Several poems in Sea Garden address the vulnerability of youth and the
brutal damage incurred on young male bodies in a modern technological
warfare. The desecration of male bodies is boldly, yet metaphorically,
portrayed in ‘The Shrine’: ‘Flame passes under us /and sparks that unknot
the flesh, /… / sparks and scattered light’.23 ‘The Shrine’, the safe haven for
shelter and support, is also a deceptive beacon in the poem, metaphorical
of the ongoing war and propagandists who have ‘tempted men’ and lured
them with false promises, eventually leading to the path of destruction: ‘Nay,
you are great, fierce, evil!/ you are the land-blight!/ you have tempted men/
but they perished on your cliffs.’24 The element of deception and treachery
associated with the militarist ideology is intensified by the evocative use
of sea imagery: ‘Your lights are but dank shoals, / slate and pebble and
wet shells/ and seaweed fastened to the rocks.’25 The doomed youth are
vulnerable, ‘unsheltered’ from the brute elemental forces of nature in the
trench warfare: ‘But you! you are unsheltered, cut with the weight of wind!/
you shudder’.26 These lines also underline the fragility of human valour
and strength against the heavy odds of the modern war (‘You are useless!/
When the tides swirl/ Your boulders cut and wreck/ the staggering ships’),27
or what H.D. describes in a wartime review as ‘mechanical demon, the
devil of machinery, of which we can hardly repeat too often, the war is the
hideous offspring.’28 The poet mocks at the personified grave too: ‘you are
useless, /O grave, O beautiful, / the landsmen tell it! I have heard! you are
useless.’29 ‘Grave’ promises no sustenance or hope for the poetic voice, as
young lives perish anonymously, deprived of the dignity of proper burial
or remembrance. Through her deeply personalised reaction in Sea Garden,
H.D. fashions a poetics of resistance that is in sharp contrast to other forms
56
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

of war poetry. Her veiled criticism of the ongoing war is a political language
as well, as it portrays the exclusive ideological resistance of a female artist.
Yet, it is interesting to note that her aestheticism departs from the male
poetic canon or other forms of war verse written during the war years.

Notes
1
Gary Burnett, ‘A Poetics out of War: H.D.’s Response to the First World War’,
Agenda, 25, 1987, 61.
2
Hilda Doolittle (H.D.), Collected Poems 1912-1944, edited by Louis L. Martz
(Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1984), 59. Henceforth referred to as H.D.: Collected
Poems.
3
William Carlos William, ‘Kora in Hell’ in Imaginations (New York: New Directions,
1970), 13. Also cited in Burnett, 56.
4
H.D., Asphodel, edited with an Introduction and biographical notes by Robert Spoo
(Duke University Press: North Carolina, 1992), Part II, 116.
5
H.D.: Collected Poems, 60.
6
H.D.: Collected Poems, 60.
7
Burnett, ‘A Poetics Out of War’, 57.
8
Simon Featherstone, War Poetry: An Introductory Reader (London: Routledge, 1995),
102.
9
Especially in later works like Helen In Egypt, Asphodel, Hermione and several others.
10
The report on Gallipoli (On 30 April 1915) was titled ‘Battle on Trojan Plain’ by
London Times and described on similar lines. For more details see H,D, and Hellenism:
Classic Lines (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 260. Hereafter cited as
Eileen Gregory.
11
Rachel DuPlessis, H.D.: The Career of That Struggle (Bloomington and Indianapolis:
Indiana University press, 1986), 12.
12
Vincent Quinn, Hilda Doolitte (H.D.) (New York: Twayne Publishers Inc, 1967), 36.
13
H.D.: Collected Poems, 21.
14
Megan Lloyd Davies, ‘H.D. Imagiste? Bisexuality: Identity: Imagism’ in Kicking
Daffodils: Twentieth-Century Women Poets, ed. Vicki Bertram (Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press, 1997) 41.
15
H.D.: Collected Poems, 5.
16
Eileen Gregory, 136.
17
Susan McCabe, Cinematic Modernism: Modernist Poetry and Film (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2005), 142.
18
H.D.: Collected Poems, 66.
19
Ibid. 19.
20
Ibid.
21
Susan McCabe, Cinematic Modernism: Modernist Poetry and Film (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2005) 143.
22
Cassandra Laity, H.D. and the Victorian Fin de Siecle: Gender, Modernism and
Decadence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 47.
23
H.D.: Collected Poems, 9.
24
Ibid., 7.

57
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

25
Ibid.
26
Ibid., 8.
27
Ibid.
28
H.D., ‘Responsibilities’, Agenda 25 (3-4), 52 (1987-88) Also cited by Featherstone, 101.
29
H.D.: Collected Poems, 8.

58
War Poetry: A Conversation with Michael
Longley, Andrew Motion and Jon Stallworthy
EDITED BY SANTANU DAS

SD: ‘We must go over the ground again’ (Blunden). What has been drawing you
to that ‘ground’ for so many years?

ML: My father’s central, really, to my preoccupation with the First World

War. He joined the London-Scottish Regiment in September 1914 and
miraculously survived the war. He was wounded at High Wood. He died
before I was twenty. So I’ve always regretted not talking to him more,
and in a sense, my own urge to write about the Great War is … I simply
want to go on talking to my father. In my late teens and early twenties,
a number of things came together: a growing admiration for the poems
of Owen, Sassoon and Rosenberg which I’d first encountered at school;
then my father’s distinguished service in the Great War (he was awarded
a Military Cross for gallantry and became a Captain by the time he was
twenty); then discovering the glorious songs from the trenches (Seamus
Heaney loaned me a recording of Joan Littlewood’s Oh, What A Lovely
War!). At Trinity College Dublin, at the beginning of my relationship
with Edna [the literary critic Edna Longley], we treasured the little blue
Faber hardback of Edward Thomas’s poems. For decades, Edna has been
profoundly engaged with Thomas. He now haunts our lives, an illuminating
ghost. We have travelled to his grave in Agny twice and we have visited
his three Hampshire homes. Over the years, I have written seven or eight
poems about Thomas, footnotes to Edna’s monumental annotated edition
of his Collected Poems (2008). I also remember as a student a handsome
Chatto and Windus Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen (1963) edited by Cecil
Day Lewis. For me the work produced by the war poets is an inexhaustible
well. And that’s why I keep returning to it, not only as a reader, but also
as a pilgrim to the battlefields and cemeteries of northern France. We last
visited the war graves in 2010, along with Isaac Rosenberg’s nephew and
Edmund Blunden’s daughter. At Rosenberg’s grave I read to a group of
fellow pilgrims ‘Dead Man’s Dump’ and found myself saying that it was one
of the greatest poems I knew – like a chorus from Aeschylus or Sophocles.
I now believe that’s true. I feel the same about Owen’s ‘Insensibility’ and
‘Exposure’. My reading of the poem was followed by this epiphany: out of
59
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

the bus window I watched Rosenberg’s nephew kneeling by his uncle’s grave
and placing a pebble on the headstone. The Great War keeps generating
epiphanies like that.

JS: I had an uncle who was killed at Gallipoli, and a cousin of his who was
wounded there. So my first visit to that ground was for personal reasons.
At school – in the 1940s – our lives were soaked in the First World War. Of
the masters who taught me, one had lost half his face in the trenches and
was a terrible sight. Another had a steel plate in his head. Every Armistice
Day, sun or rain, we had the Armistice Service in front of a tall stone school
cross engraved with eighty-three names of boys and masters killed in the
First World War. But of course, that was when another war was on, so I
grew up with the radio. The airwaves were clogged with news of war. And
at school, almost every week, someone’s mother would come wearing black
clothes. So for me, there was the entirely subjective First World War from
my schooldays, and then as I began to grow up, the first poem I remember
writing was a bad ballad about a British pilot shooting down a Japanese
Zero fighter plane.

AM: I came to this through my grandfather’s involvement – my grandfather

fought in Palestine from 1915 until 1917 and then went to France and ended
the war fighting in France, with never a scratch on his body. And also
through my father’s involvement: he enlisted in 1944, landed on Gold Beach
in Normandy on D-Day, fought through France and Germany until the end
of the war, then stayed in the Territorials until the mid-1960s. But while a lot
of my early memories of him are memories in which he’s wearing a uniform,
he very rarely spoke about his experiences as a soldier. In fact, his silence on
the subject was a powerful kind of presence – until the end of his life, when
he began speaking a little more freely. His memories were all there, intact.
Like the little plastic folder he’d been given on D-Day, with a phrasebook
and a map in it, that he kept in his desk until the last … So yes, that was one
way into my thinking about the war. The other was reading the war poets
at school, in my teenage years. I came from a very un-bookish background,
and these poems were crucial for me. I suspect the same is true for a lot of
people – maybe boys especially. For good and for ill, they shaped my idea of
what all war poetry could and should be like. My ideas have modified a good
deal since then, of course.

SD: What then is ‘war poetry’? When does a poem become a ‘war poem’? Are
there particular pressures in writing war poetry?
60
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

ML: First of all, it has to be a good poem. Tens, hundreds, thousands of

poems were written in 1914–18, and most of them are ghastly. So that’s the
first thing, really.

JS: Yes, more than 2,000 poets – most of them were hopeless. I think we
make too much of some of the minor poets of the First World War because
they were fine courageous people. But not all their poems are as good. Many
are less good than those of the underrated poets of the Second World War.

AM: Sure, I agree, although for a lot of people, war poetry remains,
essentially, First World War poetry. It’s about trench fighting, it’s the reversal
of the pastoral tradition in which the old comforts of beautiful landscape,
birdsong, poppies, flowers are found to have lost their consoling powers.
Second World War poetry, by contrast, tends to be broader in its types and
varieties – and is often not about fighting itself, but about being frightened,
or displaced, or bored. It’s perhaps too neat a way of putting it, but for me,
these differences are well-summarised by the difference between ‘I parried;
but my hands were loath and cold’ in Owen’s ‘Strange Meeting’, and ‘Now in
my dial of glass appears/ the soldier who is going to die’ in Douglas’s ‘How
to Kill’. One is hand-to-hand – and the other is detached. Like Michael,
Edward Thomas has been very important to me, as a way of understanding
what these differences might be (I wrote my graduate thesis on his work in
the 1970s, and subsequently published it as a book). Even though Thomas
wrote all his poems wearing a uniform, he wrote next-to-nothing in France
– and has consequently loosened up my idea of what war poetry can be.
I imagine that, as life goes on, other kinds of loosening will occur too,
because our experience of war changes as time passes – as combatants and
non-combatants (as non-combatants because we read about it all the time,
see it on telly, and so on). There are dangers associated with this I think,
from a writer’s point of view. I mean, there’s a temptation to aggrandise
yourself by associating with an extreme subject; a danger that you’ll end up
parading your sensitivity.

JS: Well, remember the most unpopular poem in American poetry written
during the Vietnam War – by Anthony Hecht:

Here lies fierce Strephon, whose poetic rage

Lashed out on Vietnam from page and stage;
Whereby from basements of Bohemia he
Rose to the lofts of sweet celebrity,
61
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Being, by Fortune, (our Eternal Whore)

One of the few to profit by that war
A fate he shared – it bears much thinking on –
With certain persons at the Pentagon.1

An awful lot of those poets stayed comfortably at home and made a great
deal of money. Poems about bullets whacking through the thatch, written in
flats in Harvard and Princeton, seem to me obscene, in a way.

I think the term ‘war poetry’ may have outrun its use. War poetry, as you
extend it, generation by generation, now includes the Home Front, and
women, and very rightly, but it used to mean a poem about combat. It can
no longer do only that. It’s become so elastic now that I think one has to use
it in sort of quotation marks.

ML: Well, the example of Edward Thomas means one uses the term
without quotation marks, because he wrote all his poems in England. If the
cosmos of a poem is the Great War, then that’s it. And it doesn’t matter if
it’s a woman writing, or Edward Thomas writing in England. War turns
everything upside down, and redefines poetry. The quality of the best
poems continued through from 1914–18 to Keith Douglas in the Second
World War.

JS: Absolutely. And I think Edward Thomas is a particularly interesting case

because his are intensely, beautifully made, very moving poems by someone
who hasn’t even seen a trench. But he’s aware of what the war is doing to
England, and the pastoral world that he so loves. And I think you can
translate that experience into the American experience in Vietnam, where
there are some poets who wrote very movingly about what the war was doing
to America, which they knew about, rather than the bullet whacking through
the thatch, which they didn’t know about.

AM: That’s absolutely it. There are two things to add perhaps – to be
specific. One is that time needs to pass, and things need to mulch down. And
the other is that poems often benefit from approaching their subject through
the side door or the back door or the roof, and not through the front door.

JS: Not full-frontal, yes, I agree. It seems to me that to write well about a
war that you’ve only seen on the television, or read about in the newspapers,
there has to be a sort of subjective way in. When you’re thinking about
62
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

the great war poems, by people who never saw a battle – for example, ‘The
Charge of the Light Brigade’ – it’s because Tennyson had spent his life
thinking about chivalry, men on horseback, charging, that the story of the
charge of the Light Brigade was an extension of an Arthurian story. What
flows into it is all he’s been reading and imagining for years. And similarly,
Hardy’s ‘Drummer Hodge’:

Young Hodge the drummer never knew –

Fresh from his Wessex home –
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.2

Hardy cycled down to Southampton to see the troops leaving for South
Africa, and he’d spent his life thinking about Wessex, and countrymen
like young Hodge, and home and so he was able to identify with Hodge
as Tennyson with the soldiers of the Light Brigade. It’s very hard to do
that, and to write a poem as good as these, unless you have that sort of
personal connection.

AM: There’s got to be that engine, hasn’t there? For you, Michael, it’s your
Dad; for you, Jon, it’s your relatives – and for me, it’s my Dad. That’s how it
works. In my own poems about war, I’ve tried to use this personal element
as a way of preventing myself from grandstanding. And by doing something
else as well. By writing poems that collaborate with soldiers and others;
by writing ‘found’ poems. ‘The Five Acts of Harry Patch’ (2008) is a good
example. I used some of Harry’s own words, wrote my own, and listened to
my father’s heartbeat.

ML: A bad poem is a big enough offence, but a bad poem about the suffering
of one’s fellow citizens really is a sin against the light. Like other Irish poets
I have approached the Troubles obliquely – and still do. I dislike the notion
that the Troubles might be subject matter for art, or that art might provide
solace for those damaged by the violence. Having said that, I would like to
add that I have received from people bereaved in the Troubles some warm
letters in response to my elegies. When my elegy ‘The Ice-cream Man’
was first published, I received a letter of thanks signed ‘Loretta Larmour,
the Ice-cream Man’s Mother’. That alone makes the poetic enterprise
seem worthwhile.
63
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

SD: War poetry, it is often alleged, is perhaps too weighted towards the war and
politics. How important is the role of aesthetic form to war poetry?

JS: There are those who know that war’s a confusing experience and think
that if you’re going to write about it, you have to have a confusing form –
and that I think is nonsense. Someone like Owen or Blunden used form
which is what people of that time expected if they read a poem, and then
they gave it a violent twist. They set up a sort of lyric pastoral expectation,
but then delivered a shocking sting in the poem’s tail.

AM: Completely right. First World War poetry is literary, however visceral
it might also be. Literary because the people writing it had the sort of the
education that was beginning to diminish by the time the Second World
War started. Metaphorically and sometimes actually, soldiers of the First
World War had all kinds of book-culture in the knapsacks: stuff they took
for granted. The Classical tradition. The English inheritance. And the Bible,
of course.

ML: And they test the English lyric. The whole war experience tests it, and
shows how sturdy it remains. The Keatsian, the Wordsworthian tradition
(and all the way back to Homer and Virgil). ‘Insensibility’ is Sophoclean: it’s
war poetry reaching way beyond what we normally think of as war poetry:
it seems to touch on everything. I remember asking you, Andrew, why you
didn’t include in your war anthology Sassoon’s ‘The Dug-Out’:

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled,

And one arm bent across your sullen, cold,
Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,
Deep-shadow’d from the candle’s guttering gold;
And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;
Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head…
You are too young to fall asleep for ever;
And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.3

If Sappho had written those last two italicised lines, they would
automatically be considered immortal. But here they are, the work of a poet
who has been dismissed as lacking transcendence. But that seems to me an
extraordinary moment in English poetry, not just in Sassoon’s work. The
whole poem’s marvellous. And I love ‘Everyone Sang’. It moves me to tears
every time I read it. It has the transcendental note.
64
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

JS: I wonder whether you know Sassoon’s poem, never published in his
lifetime, called ‘Christ and the Soldier’. It was written one month after he
had seen the first day of the battle of the Somme. It’s interesting in that,
at the end of his life, Sassoon entered the Roman Catholic Church, and I
suspect he didn’t publish it because he had doubts about whether it would
be seen as blasphemous. You have the soldier kneeling before a crucifix, so
religion is right there from the start.

The straggled soldier halted – stared at Him –

Then clumsily dumped down upon his knees,
Gasping, ‘O blessed crucifix, I’m beat!
And Christ, still sentried by the seraphim,

And here’s the natural world:

Near the front-line, between two splintered trees,

Spoke him: ‘My son, behold these hands and feet’.

Now the poem has these two voices: the soldier, and Christ. And Christ is
completely out of touch. He says, ‘I made for you the mysteries,/ Beyond
all battles moves the Paraclete.’ The soldier would think, what the hell’s
a paraclete? A parachute? He would have no idea. Sassoon does this
deliberately, to show you how out of touch Christ is. And the soldier
answers him:

          ‘I was born full of lust,

With hunger, thirst, and wishfulness to wed.
Who cares today if I done wrong or right?’
Christ asked all pitying, ‘Can you put no trust
In my known word, that shrives each faithful head?
Am I not resurrection, life and light?’

In part three of the poem, at the third time of asking, the soldier says:

     ‘But be you for both sides? I’m paid to kill

And if I shoot a man his mother grieves.
Does that come into what your teaching tells?’

Not surprisingly, the figure on the Cross is silent and the soldier has the
last word:
65
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

‘Lord Jesus, ain’t you got no more to say?’

Bowed hung that head below the crown of thorns.
The soldier shifted, and picked up his pack,
And slung his gun, and stumbled on his way.
‘O God,’ he groaned, ‘Why ever was I born?’
The battle boomed, and no reply came back.4

ML: That’s very formal. By and large the Anglophone poetry of the Great
War is at its best when it’s formal. In fact, war poems would not be as
interesting as they are, if they were formally less complex.

AM: This is an extremely interesting poem. It’s a lyric debate – similar to the
kind of thing Larkin does. And about the question of form: taking images in
nature which have traditionally been used to help us enjoy and endure our
experience as humans, and showing that either they don’t work anymore, or
have been forced into some ironical relationship with new brutal material,
seems to me the default strategy in an awful lot of First World War poetry.
And nobody does it better than Owen, as in ‘Spring Offensive’:

Hour after hour they ponder the warm field

And the far valley behind, where buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up …5

JS: I think that’s so moving because it calls into mind a time when
buttercups did cover the feet of children, and happy picnics with parents.
And I think the same goes for form. If you ask whether there’s a tension
between the subject form and the lyric mode, I would say not necessarily.

ML: Owen keeps changing, doesn’t he? There are so many Owens. ‘The
Send-Off’ is about all the send-offs, isn’t it? It is a symbolic poem.

JS: And it would do for any war. It would do for Afghanistan.

AM: It’s my favourite of all his poems, as a whole poem, even though it’s in
some ways un-typical of him. While most of his greatest poems are set in the
trenches, this is not: it’s behind the lines somewhere or other. So the angle of
entry to the subject is surprising and different. And as a result, this business
we’re talking about – about the pastoral tradition and what’s being done to
it, about how it’s being brutalised and discredited or undermined – becomes
very fascinating:
66
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Down the close darkening lanes they sang their way

To the siding-shed
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men’s are, dead.

Here nature (the dust, the ‘wreath and spray’) has become memorialising the
soldiers, rather than being something that fortifies them. And this point of
view is strengthened by the non-combatant observers:

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp

Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.

Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp

Winked to the guard.6

Though it’s only a little poem, the world suddenly opens and shows us the
hinterland of things: the emotionlessness of natural objects, and of man-
made objects (the ‘unmoved’ signal). Or the way they conspire with death,
rather than bringing comfort (the lamp ‘winking’).

JS: Not ‘moved’, as a watcher might be moved.

AM: Precisely. ‘So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went’. This idea
of their being wrong … Well, of course, we know it’s wrong because war is
wrong in some fundamental way, but that’s -

JS: And hushed up, too -

AM: Exactly, the idea that this is all being swept under the carpet – the
whole thing is done guiltily. Everybody really knows this is all a terribly bad
idea. But they’re not saying so.

JS: It does have a political thrust there, actually.

ML: For all its documentary propulsion, it’s a very mysterious poem. And
the drift of the different line lengths, the short and the long, emphasises that.
It comes in by the sidedoor. It’s a poem about mortality.
67
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

AM: Absolutely. And then there’s that business of the ‘wells’:

Shall they return to beating of great bells

In wild train-loads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,

May creep back, silent, to village wells,

Up half-known roads.7

It always reminds me of Hardy – of that moment in Jude the Obscure when

he identifies the well as the omphalos of the village. It’s the essence of the
place, and so it is here. But what we’re being told in this poem is that not
many people are going to come back, and even for those who do, the well
may not (so to speak) know them. Because the place will have changed – and
so will the people. Horribly changed by the war.

JS: The poem also comes around in circles: they sang their way down the
darkening lane, now they creep back, maybe on two legs, maybe not on two
legs, silent, no singing. To village wells -

AM: Wells, wells up, tearfulness – all these things come into it. And speaking
about this reminds me very much of what Thomas says about watching the
clods crumble and topple over for the last time in ‘As the team’s head-brass’:

The horses started and for the last time

I watched the clods crumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.8

He’s telling us here that the landscape has changed for reasons which are not
only to do with the war, but with agricultural changes. You go to fight the
war to defend the country that you love, but when you come back, oh! It’s
not quite the same.

JS: There’s a brilliant ambiguity in that, because the plough is going up and
down, and it goes up for the last time – so, just the last time today, but there
is another last time which we hear behind that.

ML: Multum in parvo. The 140 poems he wrote in the last two years of his
life are a miracle – one of poetry’s great mysteries. Nowadays Thomas’s
presence seems to be everywhere: ‘the past hovering as it revisits the light’.
68
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

SD: Auden famously wrote that ‘poetry makes nothing happen’. Is this true of
war poetry?

JS: One of the things that makes Auden’s claim so vitally interesting and
significant is its context, his great elegy ‘In Memory of W.B.Yeats’. The Irish
Archpoet died in January 1939, the month in which Barcelona, the last
Republican stronghold, fell to Fascist Nationalists in the Spanish Civil War,
and the banners of Hitler’s Third Reich were preparing to advance across
Europe. Auden, believing that poetry could help democracy to happen, had
been one of many British and European poets to have gone to Spain and
written in support of the Republican cause. So, profoundly disillusioned
in 1939, he ventured to take issue with Yeats who, by contrast, had long
believed that the arts in general, and poetry in particular, made history
happen. In his great late poem, ‘The Statues’ (written in 1938), he had
argued that it was the ancient Greek artists – sculptors, in particular – who
created the culture, the society that shaped and inspired the citizen sailors
who defeated the Persian navy at the battle of Salamis. In the same way,
he claimed it was the artists of the Irish Renaissance – poets (like himself)
in particular – who reintroduced the mythology that inspired the Irish
Republican Brotherhood gunmen, whose Easter Rising against the British
had led to Ireland’s Home Rule.

It’s an argument that artists – and poets, in particular – find attractive.

Myself, I think Auden and Yeats are both right: poetry makes nothing
happen in the short term, but has in the past had long-term results. Poetry
from Homer to Brooke presented a view of war that led young men to take
up arms. And, by contrast, I would argue that it was the anti-war poetry of
Owen, Sassoon and others – in which British schoolchildren have for half
a century been steeped – that helped make the protest marches in London
against the Iraq War so much larger than those in America (where war
poetry is seldom on a school syllabus).

ML: Poetry gives things a second chance. It helps to make sure that victims
are not forgotten. Good war poems escape the category ‘war poetry’.

JS: Yes, war poems should be good poems. I think bad ones are sometimes
not so much harmless as harmful in that, like bad journalism, they numb
nerves which the best poems (only the best) of Owen, Sassoon, Rosenberg
and Thomas reach and still retain the voltage to shock.

69
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Notes
1
Quoted in Anthony Hecht in Conversation with Philip Hoy ed. Philip Hoy (London:
Between the Lines, 2001).
2
Thomas Hardy, ‘Drummer Hodge’ in James Gibson ed. Complete Poems (London:
Macmillan, 1976), 91.
3
Siegfried Sassoon, ‘The Dug-Out’ in Rupert Hart-Davis ed. The War Poems (London:
Faber, 1983), 129.
4
Sassoon, ‘Christ and the Soldier’ in The War Poems, 45-46.
5
‘Spring Offensive’, in Jon Stallworthy ed. The Poems of Wilfred Owen (London:
Chatto, 1983), 169.
6
Owen, ‘The Send-Off’, Poems, 149.
7
Ibid.
8
Edward Thomas, ‘As the team’s head-brass’, in Edna Longley ed. The Annotated
Collected Poems (Tarset: Bloodaxe, 2008), 124.

70
Jon Stallworthy: an appreciation
ADRIAN BARLOW

Poetry and Oxford shaped Jon Stallworthy’s life and career. War poetry will
define his reputation. He grew up in Oxford, and as a young boy entered
the Dragon School, where already at the age of eight he had decided he
wanted to be a poet. After Rugby School and National Service, he went up
to Magdalen College and won the Newdigate Prize for Poetry. Encouraged
by Helen Gardner and Maurice Bowra, he embarked on research into
Yeats’s manuscripts, which led to a lifelong fascination with the process and
sequence of poetic creation. He published the first of eleven volumes of his
own poems in 1961 (aged 26) and worked for a decade as an influential and
successful Poetry Editor at Oxford University Press. Poetry always came
first; his work as a scholar and critic flowed from the way he thought as a
poet. He says as much in his memoir, Singing School: the Making of a Poet
(1998).

Stallworthy’s biography, Wilfred Owen (1974), and his two-volume edition

of Owen’s poems and fragments, led to ten years’ teaching in the United
States, before he returned to Oxford to become Reader in English Literature
and a Governing-Body Fellow at Wolfson College. A Professorship soon
followed. Wolfson was to be his teaching, research and writing base for the
rest of his life – the affection he felt for the College was only matched by the
esteem in which he was held by its members. His writing was always lucid
and accessible, but never condescending. His criticism, his biographies of
Owen and of Louis MacNeice, his work as an anthologist – not forgetting
his advocacy of poets in danger of being buried in the footnotes of literary
history – ensured he had many friends, even among those who had never
met him. Last September, in a warm tribute at the English Association’s
Oxford Conference on ‘British Poetry of the First World War’, Tim Kendall
spoke for everyone present: ‘I just wanted to say how important Jon’s work
has been actually for all of us, even when we don’t always know it. He has
shaped the field of war literature for all of us.’

Shaping the field of war literature has indeed been both Jon Stallworthy’s
work and his achievement. Part of that work has been to insist that the very
term ‘war poet’ needs to be used with care: ‘It remains an unsatisfactory
label’, he declares in the Introduction to Anthem for Doomed Youth, the
71
WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

book written to accompany the 2002 Imperial War Museum exhibition

about the lives and legacy of ‘Twelve Soldier Poets of the First World War’.
However, he uses the label himself (not without a certain irony) as the title
for his final volume of poems, War Poet (2014). He is clear that war poetry –
poetry that bears witness to war – can be written both by those who actually
experienced fighting at first hand and by those who did not, provided that
their poetry is ‘true’ in the sense Wilfred Owen had applied to that word.
In one of his final essays on the responsibility of war poets and war poetry,
‘The Fury and the Mire’, (collected in Survivors’ Songs, 2008) he says of
poems such as ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ and ‘Drummer Hodge’ that

These poems of second-hand witness have an immediacy and power

equal to any of first-hand witness, being the work of great poets, each
with a lifelong imaginative investment in his subject. But such poems
are rare. The second-hand testimony of lesser poets, lacking such
investment, is seldom impressive and sometimes embarrassing.

Here, his willingness to discriminate between great and lesser poets

- defining the strengths of one and the weaknesses of the other - is
characteristic of Stallworthy’s critical rigour. He is always clear that the
experience of those who fought and wrote gives them the right of rebuke
against those who only pretend to bear witness. In ‘Owen’s Afterlife’,
another of the essays in Survivors’ Songs, he explains how he came to Owen
via a disagreement with his own poetic mentor, Yeats:

The power of his pleading challenges the validity of Yeats’s pontifical

dictum that ‘passive suffering is not a theme for poetry’ …. Owen’s
poems tend to make an active response to the suffering of which
they speak. He is a classic example of what would become a
quintessentially twentieth-century figure: the poet as witness – and not
a passive witness.

In all his writing, Stallworthy reminds us that what the war poets wrote was
poetry, not propaganda; and not the least part of his legacy will be to have
made us listen to the voices of writers such as Owen with greater pleasure
as well as greater understanding. At the end of ‘The Mire and the Fury’, he
asks what war poems actually achieve, before answering thus:

In that their subject is tragedy, they can – when made with passion
and precision – move us (as Aristotle said) to pity and terror; also, I
72
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

suggest, to a measure of fury. And just as we go to a performance of

Shakespeare’s King Lear or Britten’s War Requiem for pleasure, we
return (or at least I return) to ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’ or ‘The Heroes’
for the wonder and pleasurable satisfaction a masterpiece affords.

‘Passion and precision’ describe exactly the kind of conviction and

scholarship Jon Stallworthy’s life and work have brought to the discussion of
literature and its value in our time. To which I should add, finally, one other
quality: generosity. It’s a quality he admired in others and exemplified in his
own willingness to teach, share and encourage. What he wrote of Edmund
Blunden, in a 1989 Introduction to Undertones of War, we may properly
apply to Jon himself:

Wherever he went he was loved for his learning, his wisdom, his
modesty, his humour and his generosity. The last was legendary and
extended not only to the living but to the dead, such as Wilfred Owen,
whose poems he edited with rare devotion.

73
Notes on Contributors
Adrian Barlow is President of the English Association. Before retiring, he
was Director of Public and Professional Programmes at the University
of Cambridge Institute of Continuing Education. He is series editor of
Cambridge Contexts in Literature and his recent publications include World
and Time: Teaching Literature in Context (Cambridge University Press, 2009)
and Extramural: Literature and Lifelong Learning (Lutterworth Press, 2012).
His website is www.adrianbarlow.co.uk.

Argha Kumar Banerjee, DPhil (Sussex), is currently the Dean of Arts and
Assistant Professor, English Department, St. Xavier’s College, Calcutta
University, India. A Commonwealth Research Scholar (2004-7) at Sussex
University, he was also awarded the Charles Wallace Research Grant (2012)
for his post-doctoral research in the UK on war poetry. His publications
include Poetry of the First World War: A Critical Evaluation (2011) and
Women’s Poetry and the First World War (2013).

Michael Copp is an independent scholar, with an MSt in Modernist Studies

(Cambridge). He has presented conference papers on Richard Aldington,
Imagism, Pound, Sassoon and F. S. Flint. Among his edited books are
An Imagist at War: The Complete Poems of Richard Aldington, Richard
Aldington: The Selected War Poems and Cambridge Poets of the Great War.
He has also contributed three short monographs to Cecil Woolf’s ‘War
Poets’ series: Edgell Rickword, Frederic Manning and Ford Madox Ford.

Guy Cutherbertson is a Senior Lecturer at Liverpool Hope University, and

has held posts at St. Andrews, Oxford, Swansea, Queen Mary and Brighton.
He has written a biography of Wilfred Owen for Yale University Press (2014),
and he is a General Editor of the OUP edition of Edward Thomas’s prose,
having also edited the first two volumes, Autobiographies, and, with Lucy
Newlyn, England and Wales. In 2007 he co-edited Branch-Lines: Edward
Thomas and Contemporary Poetry.

Santanu Das is Reader in English at King’s College London. He is the

author of Touch and Intimacy in First World War Literature (2006) and 1914-
1918: Indian Troops in Europe (2014) and the editor of Race, Empire and First
World War Writing (2011) and The Cambridge Companion to the Poetry of the
First World War (2013).
74
 WAR POETRY REVIEW: THE JOURNAL OF THE WAR POETS ASSOCIATION

Evelyn Heinz is an AHRC-funded doctoral student at Birkbeck, University

of London. She holds a BA in English from the University of Cambridge
and an MSt in Modern Languages from the University of Oxford. She has
recently been awarded a Fellowship to research John Rodker’s manuscripts
at the Harry Ransom Center, University of Texas.

Kate McLoughlin is an associate professor of English Literature at the

University of Oxford and Fellow and Tutor at Harris Manchester College.
She is the author of Authoring War: The Literary Representation of War from
the Iliad to Iraq (2011) and Martha Gellhorn: The War Writer in the Field and
in the Text (2007) and editor of The Cambridge Companion to War Writing
(2009).

Charles Mundye is Head of Academic Development for the Department

of Humanities at Sheffield Hallam University, and is the editor of The Van
Pool: The Collected Poems of Keidrych Rhys for Seren, and co-editor of
Laura Riding and Robert Graves, A Survey of Modernist Poetry and A
Pamphlet Against Anthologies for Carcanet. He is President of the Robert
Graves Society and co-editor of the Society’s journal Gravesiana.

James Grant Repshire received a BGS in history at the University of Kansas

in 2005. He was then commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the US Army. A
cavalry officer and paratrooper, he served in Iraq and Afghanistan with
the 82nd Airborne Division. Leaving the army in late 2010 at the rank of
Captain, he has since received an MA in History at Exeter, and currently
reads there for a PhD in English, studying war poet F. W. Harvey.

75
Back to South Leigh for evensong
and, in the sermon, watched the long
arm of the sun restore the Doom
above the chancel arch. Thy kingdom
come, with a vengeance! The entrenched dead,
rising as Reveille sounded,
parted company. Sinners condemned
to join the chain-gang of the damned
recovered ‘objects of desire’
and fell in for eternal fire.

I knew them, even naked - Smith,

Haynes, Adrian, Hill, Roberts (with
his hand restored) - my own lot, plus
the General. He had earned his place!
But then, herded with them downhill,
I was reprieved. Detailed for hell,
I heard beyond the traverse
an archangelic sentry’s voice:
‘Wiring party coming in.’
They came in without Adrian.

www.warpoets.org