Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967)

Over 100 short poems written between 1915 and 1919; plus a handful from 1926 and 1933.

Sassoon's anger builds and builds, and he is utterly withering by the end. These poems say more than any biography could about the man.

It's an extraordinary collection, particularly for a British reader for whom the First World War is regarded as unmitigated lunacy. Look no farther than Blackadder Goes Forth for a very British interpretation.

More than once I read a verse and had to put the book down beside me. War, in all its horror, condescended, captured, and retold. And, to one side, a warning of the ways of the ruling class given dominion.… (mer)

I agree with Sir Geoffrey Keynes, who wrote the introduction to my edition, that there’s something a little immature about this poet’s first attempt at a novel. But that plays to the book’s advantage by coming across as the authentic voice of its young protagonist. The subject matter is typical English-pastoral turn of the 20th century stuff: fox hunting, cricket, tea and sandwiches, and so forth. Its overall effect is superbly evocative of the era and a disappearing way of life. The pace of the novel is quite slow, but this is a book of the sort one reads for its characters rather than plot. Eventually, and inevitably, the storm of war arrives and the careless days of fox hunting that fill the first two-thirds of the novel throw the tragedy of conflict into a striking and, indeed, moving contrast.

I take a close look at my (Limited Editions Club) edition on my book blog: https://ubiquitousbooks.wordpress.com/2020/08/01/memoirs-of-a-fox-hunting-man/… (mer)

Is it not a pity that we see war as so important it overshadows everything, so that a poet becomes a war poet although there is more to him than that.

Maybe it would be better if we were more naive about war and less cynical about love.

Lovers

You were glad to-night: and now you’ve gone away.
Flushed in the dark, you put your dreams to bed;
But as you fall asleep
I hear you say
Those tired sweet drowsy words we left unsaid.

Sleep well: for I can follow you, to bless
And lull your distant beauty where you roam;
And with wild songs of hoarded loveliness
Recall you to these arms that were your home.



Parted

Sleepless I listen to the surge and drone
And drifting roar of the town’s undertone;
Till through quiet falling rain I hear the bells
Tolling and chiming their brief tune that tells
Day’s midnight end. And from the day that’s over
No flashes of delight I can recover;
But only dreary winter streets, and faces
Of people moving in loud clanging places:
And I in my loneliness, longing for you...

For all I did to-day, and all I’ll do
To-morrow, in this city of intense
Arteried activities that throb and strive,
Is but a beating down of that suspense
Which holds me from your arms.
I am alive
Only that I may find you at the end
Of these slow-striking hours I toil to spend,
Putting each one behind me, knowing but this—
That all my days are turning toward your kiss;
That all expectancy awaits the deep
Consoling passion of your eyes, that keep
Their radiance for my coming, and their peace
For when I find in you my love’s release.… (mer)