By
May of 1915, the war that was to have been over by Christmas of 1914 had
dragged into its tenth month. Charlotte Mew's poem "May 1915" provides a snapshot of that moment when both
soldiers and those on the home front began to recognize that for this war, there
was no end in sight.
Enjoy listening to Mew's "May 1915," read
by Alexandra Burton. The text of the poem appears below for those who
wish to read along.
May
1915 by Charlotte Mew
Let us remember Spring
will come againTo the scorched, blackened woods, where the wounded trees
Wait with their old wise patience for the heavenly rain,
Sure of the sky: sure of the sea to send its healing breeze,
Sure of the sun, and even as to these
Surely the Spring, when God shall please,
Will come again like a divine surprise
To those who sit today with their great Dead, hands in their hands
Eyes in their eyes
At one with Love, at one with Grief: blind to the scattered things
And changing skies.
The poem opens with an
imperative command: "remember
Spring." Speaking for the grieving – the widows, children, bereft mothers and
fathers, brothers, sisters, friends, and soldiers themselves – the poem points
to the "scorched, blackened woods" as a visible reminder of the war's
destruction, but also as an exemplar for responding to that destruction.
The woods and the
wounded are joined by the repeated alliterative w's that join both in the effort of waiting for healing and
renewal. The word "Wait"
itself is capitalized and cut off from the "wounded trees" and the
sense of line two by enjambment (when line endings separate words that work
together to create meaningful phrases), highlighting both the importance of waiting
as well as its isolating loneliness.
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| "Solitude," Percy Smith |
The poem shifts its
focus in line 5 and again in line 8, when the wounded trees are compared with humans
who grieve, with "those who sit today with their great Dead" – the
"us" of the first line. The bereaved
who clasp the hands of the fallen, who stare into their eyes ("hands in
their hands/Eyes in their eyes") are one'd with the "great
Dead," united with Love and with Grief.
These are mourners who have lost themselves because of the ways in which
they are intimately joined to those who have died. In this world of loss, the mourners exist in
a place where time itself seems to have stopped. They are blind to the fragments of life that
surround them in their brokenness, unable to see or believe that anything will change.
While the first half
of the poem looks to the promise of Spring, its second half is blunt and
unsparing in describing the mindlessness of grief. Yet even these last lines hold out hope
for the future, looking ahead to "when God shall please," when
regeneration will arise even out of the blasted brokenness of the war.
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| Charlotte Mary Mew |
The tone of "May 1915" speaks like the comforting touch of a friend's hand on a shoulder, offering the greatest gift of sympathy: a patient willingness to walk alongside in the anguish, no matter how long it lasts.
Going to comment here, if I can. I agree with many of the points, but here are my thoughts. In the first 5 lines, the word "Sure" is a fact to the trees. But then the word "Surely," is not a fact, but a hope for the future. The line"Surely, the Spring, when God shall please,"contains two conditional events (in my reading) both the "Surely" and the "When God shall please," because here we are in the middle of a terrible war, and what is God doing about it? Just sitting there deciding when or if to intervene? Will Spring ever be a "divine surprise" to the bereaved? I am feeling great doubt here.The trees will recover, but the dead will not come back. The last 4 lines are so heavy; simpler than the preceding lines (fewer adjectives) and a blunter tone. "Heavenly" and "healing" are replaced with "scattered" and "changing." Why is the word "hands" put immediately after "great Dead," on the same line? In my mind, it describes the leaden feel of death, perhaps dead hands, dead eyes of grief of both the dead and living? So, for me, this poem is much darker, although I agree with many of your points.
ReplyDeleteCarol, I really enjoyed your reading and its focus on doubt and uncertainty. The repetition of "sure" and "surely" -- are they affirmations or instances of protesting too much (asserting a hope that one cannot believe)? Your rich insights and thoughtful interpretation is sincerely valued and appreciated, and I agree that the darkness of the second half of the poem calls into question the hopefulness of the poem's start.
ReplyDeleteThis is a wonderful exchange and a gorgeous poem. I love what's been said here and would only add that sure contains a suggestion or implies a steadiness and certainty (the r sounds at the end support that), surely is so lyric almost like a prayer but wistfully so -- hope is coupled with divinity, not a human trait but one bestowed by God. This makes me think of Emily Dickinson's hope being a thing with feathers -- also a suggestion of something beyond human experience or understanding--there is a suggestion of reverence for me at the end a rising up in sound with skies that leaves me on a hopeful note. Connie this poem is enigmatic in the best sense. Thank you so much for posting and thank you Carol for your thoughtful comments--they deepened my engagement. It's a poem I'll return to.
ReplyDeleteThank you both. I will also return to the poem and to Mews.
ReplyDeleteTess -- ah, your attention to the wistful sounds of the lines is beautiful, as is the comparison with Emily Dickinson's work. I do love enigmatic women writers -- including you! Your poetry cracks open the world .... so that hope, like a thing with feathers, can escape and soar. For others reading this who don't know of Tess's poetry, you're in for a treat! http://tessbarrypoet.com/
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ReplyDeleteThe irony of the idea of joyous Spring returning in 1915 is rather shocking . The enormous destruction of 1916 and 1917 and the near catastrophic Spring of 1918 are generally still undreamed of even with the monstrous engine of war building up its power - but of course the Spring was perennially when Armies girded themselves for the fighting season to begin in earnest. One thinks of Coulson with his lines envisioning blood splashing obscenely on nature in country lanes.
ReplyDeleteUndreamed of years of war -- there's a poem there, Ian. Thanks for writing and sharing your insights.
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