War Poems: 1 of 3

[Sober Poet]

Sitting here between Memorial Day and the anniversary of D-Day, I thought it might be interesting to take a look at some war poetry. At the start I’ll say that I do not have an ulterior motive and am not trying to make some grand political point. I picked these poems because I like them and they are well-achieved in my eyes. Also, not many people are aware of them and I like to share interesting things.

 

 

I’ll also add that I have never served in the military. One older brother hit the Navy at 17 and rode Trident submarines, the other older brother stole a car across state lines and chose the army over jail when the judge made the offer. After that, my folks provided serious pressure to go to school instead. School was always easy for me somehow so I went that route. I have done the research and I actually come from a long line of military men, from back before the Revolutionary War. I am very proud and grateful for all of their contributions, and for those of your families as well.

 

This little series of three poems (plus one bonus poem) deals with war in three stages: childhood, adolescence and adulthood. The three poems in order are “Arms and the Boy” “Naming of Parts” and “Planked Whitefish”. I’ll provide a little intro for each poet and poem, yet I want you to experience the works without my saying too much or coloring them one way or the other. I welcome any reactions or analysis that you might want to provide. First Poem is below. 2nd and 3^rd in subsequent posts.

 

British Poet Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

 

 

Owen is known for his war poetry depicting the horrors of trench and gas warfare. His poetic talents emerged as he was serving as a second lieutenant in World War I. He fell into a shell hole and suffered a concussion; he was blown up by a trench mortar and spent several days unconscious on an embankment lying among the remains of one of his fellow officers. Soon afterward, he was diagnosed as suffering from neurasthenia or shell shock and convalesced in a war hospital in Scotland, where he started writing poetry. Owen was killed in action one week before the Armistice was signed to end the war. His mother read the letter announcing his death as his hometown church bells rang out news that the war was over.

 

Arms and the Boy

 

Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

 

 

Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads,
Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

 

 

For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.