Pilgrimage of poems: Feckless as a colt

It may seem that the First World War produced a lot of poets, more than any other war before or since.

But the fact of the matter is that—as with so many other elements of that particular cataclysm—WWI’s circumstances did indeed engender a lot of poems published by its soldiers (at least in the British army), which you don’t see so much of before or afterwards. Especially in terms of expressing its filth, frustration, fear and futility.

In earlier wars, if poet-participants held views against the war, they pretty much kept them to themselves.

But then, the very nature of trench warfare—unspeakably bloody attacks interspersed with long periods of inaction, where you lived exposed to the elements and ankle-deep (if you were lucky) in mud; fended off rats, lice and other vermin; walked continuously hunched over (because if you stuck your head above the trench you might literally lose it), looked forward to nothing much beyond the daily rum ration; and had plenty of time to think—gave room for soldiers to work and rework their thoughts. (By contrast, there’s not a lot of poetry from airmen or sailors.)

And the ones who survived the initial days of “home by Christmas” had time to twig to the disconnect between the glory depicted in the media and the reality that you mostly couldn’t talk about to anyone not there with you. If you had the benefit of an English public school (meaning expensively private) education, poetry was an outlet.

Siegfried Sassoon, along with Wilfred Owen, is probably the best-known of these poets. He started off reasonably gung-ho in a white-flannels sort of way. He was a conscientious officer and exceptionally brave. He was awarded the Military Cross for a specific action in which he remained under rifle and artillery fire while retrieving wounded.

As it happened, that particular action was pointless, and he was not oblivious to this fact. He became increasingly angry about the futility of the war, and his poetry began to reflect this.

Following the death of a close friend, Sassoon wrote a letter to the Times articulating his position. He was something of a celebrity due to his pre-war poetry and his military career, and the published letter caused considerable consternation in the chain of command, all the way up to Parliament. After much hemming and hawing, the decision was made not to court-martial him, but instead send him to Craiglockhart Hospital, the facility for soldiers suffering from shell shock.

It was there that he met Owen, and where he had time to write a considerable body of work—dark, furious, bitter and anguished. It’s remarkable that despite his opposition to the war, when he was discharged from Craiglockhart, he returned to duty in France, suffering another wound, this time in the head from “friendly” fire. Unlike Owen, he survived the war.

It’s hard to decide among his output, but here are a couple.

“Dreamers”

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,

Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.   

In the great hour of destiny they stand,

Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.   

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win   

Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin

They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,

And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,   

Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,

And mocked by hopeless longing to regain   

Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,

And going to the office in the train.

“Memory”

When I was young my heart and head were light,

And I was gay and feckless as a colt

Out in the fields, with morning in the may,

Wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom.

O thrilling sweet, my joy, when life was free

And all the paths led on from hawthorn-time

Across the carolling meadows into June.

But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sit

Burning my dreams away beside the fire:

For death has made me wise and bitter and strong;

And I am rich in all that I have lost.

O starshine on the fields of long-ago,

Bring me the darkness and the nightingale;

Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home,

And silence; and the faces of my friends.