tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post8660232641268656749..comments2024-03-26T03:11:42.678-04:00Comments on Behind Their Lines: Second-guessing the war with AchillesConnie R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00887098543181126157noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post-85645296095337863842020-01-01T22:54:44.246-05:002020-01-01T22:54:44.246-05:00"So I descend beneath the rail
To warmth and ..."So I descend beneath the rail<br />To warmth and welcome and wassail." <br /><br />I'd forgotten this gem! What a lovely poem to reread just as the old year ends and the new one begins. Thanks for sharing!Connie R.https://www.blogger.com/profile/00887098543181126157noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post-38597533956221287302019-12-31T23:04:18.475-05:002019-12-31T23:04:18.475-05:00Heads full of Homer,indeed! Another Homeric poem ...Heads full of Homer,indeed! Another Homeric poem written by a young poet later killed in action is the following by Charles Hamilton Sorley:<br /><br />"I have not brought my Odyssey" [XXXVI]<br />Charles Hamilton Sorley - 1895-1915<br /><br />I have not brought my Odyssey<br />With me here across the sea;<br />But you’ll remember, when I say<br />How, when they went down Sparta way,<br />To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn<br />Horses were harnessed, rations drawn,<br />Equipment polished sparkling bright,<br />And breakfasts swallowed (as the white<br />Of Eastern heavens turned to gold)—<br />The dogs barked, swift farewells were told.<br />The sun springs up, the horses neigh,<br />Crackles the whip thrice—then away!<br />From sun-go-up to sun-go-down<br />The gallant horses galloped, till <br />The wind across the downs more chill<br />Blew, the sun sank and all the road<br />Was darkened, that it only showed<br />Right at the end the town’s red light<br />And twilight glimmering into night.<br /><br />The horses never slackened till<br />They reached the doorway and stood still.<br />Then came the knock, the unlading; then<br />The honey-sweet converse of men,<br />The splendid bath, the change of dress,<br />Then—O the grandeur of their Mess,<br />The henchmen, the prim stewardess!<br />And O the breaking of old ground,<br />The tales, after the port went round!<br />(The wondrous wiles of the Old Odysseus,<br />Old Agamemnon and his misuse<br />Of his command, and that young chit<br />Paris—who didn’t care a bit<br />For Helen—only to annoy her<br />He did it really, κ.τ.λ.)<br /><br />But soon they led amidst the din<br />The honey-sweet άοιδϛ in,<br />Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight,<br />Who knew the fame of men in fight—<br />Bard of white hair and trembling foot,<br />Who sang whatever God might put<br />Into his heart.<br /> And there he sung,<br />Those war-worn veterans among,<br />Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung,<br />Of clash of arms, of council’s brawl,<br />Of beauty that must early fall,<br />Of battle hate and battle joy<br />By the old windy walls of Troy.<br />They felt that they were unreal then,<br />Visions and shadow-forms, not men.<br />But those the Bard did sing and say<br />(Some were their comrades, some were they)<br />Took shape and loomed and strengthened more<br />Greatly than they had guessed of yore.<br /><br />And now the fight begins again<br />The old war-joy, the old war-pain.<br />Sons of one school across the sea<br />We have no fear to fight—<br /><br />* * * * * *<br /><br />And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it,<br />With the body or without it,<br />We shall all come tumbling down<br />To our old wrinkled red-capped town.<br />Perhaps the road up Ilsley way,<br />The old ridge-track, will be my way.<br />High up among the sheep and sky,<br />Look down on Wantage, passing by,<br />And see the smoke from Sindon town;<br />And then full left at Liddington,<br />Where the four winds of heaven meet<br />The earth-blest traveler to greet.<br />And then my face is toward the south,<br />There is a singing on my mouth:<br />Away to rightward I descry<br />My Barbury ensconced in sky,<br />Far underneath the Ogbourne twins,<br />And at my feet the thyme and whins,<br />The grasses with their little crowns<br />Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs,<br />And that old signpost (well I knew<br />That crazy signpost, arms askew,<br />Old mother of the four grass ways).<br />And then my mouth is dumb with praise,<br />For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny,<br />A glimps of Malborough έρατεινή! <br />So I descend beneath the rail<br />To warmth and welcome and wassail.<br /><br />* * * * * *<br /><br />This from the battered trenches—rough,<br />Jingling and tedious enough.<br />And so I sign myself to you:<br />One, who some crooked pathways knew<br />Round Bedwyn: who could scarcely leave<br />The Downs on a December eve:<br />Was at his happiest in shorts,<br />And got—not many good reports!<br />Small skill of rhyming in his hand—<br />But you’ll forgive—you’ll understand.<br /><br />Patremoir Presshttps://www.blogger.com/profile/01554000616491104460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post-48024789838486015572017-04-16T18:59:20.626-04:002017-04-16T18:59:20.626-04:00I've heard her speak and she's wonderful -...I've heard her speak and she's wonderful -- you're in for a treat! Connie R.https://www.blogger.com/profile/00887098543181126157noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post-46410409157513770212017-04-16T17:45:26.832-04:002017-04-16T17:45:26.832-04:00Thanks, Connie. I suppose the place to start would...Thanks, Connie. I suppose the place to start would be with the book I just discovered by Elizabeth Vandiver, "Stand in the Trench, Achilles," which is of course perfectly apropos. Thomas Hillmanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11645380693097266173noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post-52392040028194268572017-04-15T11:21:28.223-04:002017-04-15T11:21:28.223-04:00"Head full of Homer" -- surely there'..."Head full of Homer" -- surely there's a book in that? :) Thanks very much for your comment, Tom and for sharing the excerpt from "Surprised by Joy." Lewis's account of the "one imaginative moment" is particularly powerful. And I'm so glad you called my attention to the word 'quavering' - yes yes yes. "The whole moment turns upon" -- a lovely way to read and think deeply about the impact of the war on the imagination and the man. Connie R.https://www.blogger.com/profile/00887098543181126157noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4970554022397463322.post-46425425461370002452017-04-15T09:23:38.969-04:002017-04-15T09:23:38.969-04:00I have often wondered when reading poems like this...I have often wondered when reading poems like this what it must have been like to go off to war with a head full of Homer. Did it prove a defense at first? If so, did that lead to greater disillusionment, as Owen's "Dulce et Decorum est" suggests it did for him? And this poem of Shaw-Stewart, asking Achilles a question he does not answer, makes me think of the words of Achilles in "The Odyssey", where his ghost says that he would rather be the slave of the lowest man on earth than king of all the dead.<br /><br />In "Surprised by Joy" Lewis wrote:<br /><br />'One imaginative moment seems now to matter more than the realities that followed. It was the first bullet I heard—so far from<br />me that it "whined" like a journalist's or a peacetime poet's bullet. At that moment there was something not exactly like<br />fear, much less like indifference: a little quavering signal that said, "This is War. This is what Homer wrote about."'<br /><br />It's the 'quavering' that the whole moment turns upon, as between fear and indifference it all becomes real to him.<br /><br />Thomas Hillmanhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11645380693097266173noreply@blogger.com