ENGL 102
War
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ENGL 102 War |
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War Poetry Featuring poets Stephen Crane, Randall Jarrell, and Carl Sandburg Stephen Crane Stephen Crane, writing in the late 1800s—early 1900s, is considered one of the first “realists” known for writing about the nitty-gritty of lower-class life and of war, rather than the sanitized middle-class religious life of his Methodist parents and his own upbringing. His work as a reporter played a role in this. His primary novels are Maggie, A Girl of the Streets, in which a girl is wooed by a man with no intention of marrying her, ruined, abandoned by her family—she commits suicide, and The Red Badge of Courage, a novel of war in which a young man who first turns and runs as a coward in battle eventually finds his courage and fights. The following are excerpts from his poetry on war. From “The Black Riders” In the desert **************** And instantly There was a loud quarrel, world-wide. Against being ranged in rows. There was a loud quarrel, world-wide. It endured for ages; And blood was shed By those who would not stand in rows, And by those who pined to stand in rows. Eventually, the man went to death, weeping. And those who stayed in the bloody scuffle Knew not the great simplicity. From “War is Kind” listen to an audio of this Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind. Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight. These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great and his kingdom— A Field where a thousand corpses lie. Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind. Swift blazing flag of the regiment, Eagle with crest of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of slaughter, Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie. Mother whose heart hung humble as a button On the bright splendid shroud of your son, Do not weep. War is kind. Fast rode the knight With spurs, hot and reeking, Ever waving an eager sword, “To save my lady!” Fast rode the knight, And leaped from saddle to war. Men of steel flickered and gleamed Like riot of silver lights, And the gold of the knight’s good banner Still waved on the castle wall ********* A horse, Blowing, staggering, bloody thing, Forgotten at foot of castle wall. A horse, Dead at foot of castle wall. Author: Randall Jarrell (1914-1965)
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner** listen to an audio recording of this **Jarrell’s note: A ball turret was a plexiglass sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24 and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine guns and one man, a short, small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine guns a fighter attaching his bomber from below, he revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like a foetus in the womb. The fighters that attacked him were armed with cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose. From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. Author: Carl Sandburg – famous for his use of ordinary language, powerful rhythms, and mainstream American ideals. Grass listen to an audio recording of Grass & Cool Tombs Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo, Shovel them under and let me work— I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers as the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work. Cool Tombs When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads And the assassin . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs. And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral Turned ashes . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs. Pocahontas’ body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw In May, did she wonder? Does she remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs? Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool tombs. Prayers of Steel listen to audio recording Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar. Let me pray loose old walls; Let me lift and loosen old foundations. Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike. Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together. Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders. Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars. A.E.F. listen to audio recording There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart, The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust. A spider will make a silver string nest in the darkest, warmest corner of it. The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty. And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall. Forefingers and thumbs will point absently and casually toward it. It will be spoken among half-forgotten, wished-to-be-forgotten things. They will tell the spider: Go on, you’re doing good work. |
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