Robert Graves--British

 
       
Robert Graves
(1895-1985)
Though he is thought of as a writer of historical fiction; I, Claudius, The Golden Fleece and Count Belisarius, Robert Graves thought of himself first and foremost as a poet. Born 1895, he produced more than 140 works. Revered by many as an extraordinary man of letters, W.H. Auden asserted that Graves was England’s “greatest living poet.” In 1968 he received the Queen’s Gold Medal for his work in poetry. Throughout his life he published fifty-five collections of poetry. Graves lived off and on in Majorca where he died in 1985 at the age of ninety. He taught poetry at Oxford from 1961to 1966. The poem contained in this section is about World War I, but was written on the eve of World War II.
 
  
Recalling War
  
Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean,
The track aches only when the rain reminds.
The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood,
The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm.
The blinded man sees with his ears and hands
As much or more than once with both his eyes.
Their war was fought these twenty years ago
And now assumes the nature-look of time,
As when the morning traveler turns and views
His wild night-stumbling carved into a hill. What, then, was war? No mere discord of flags
But an infection of the common sky
That sagged ominously upon the earth
Even when the season was the airiest May.
Down pressed the sky, and we, oppressed, thrust out
Boastful tongue, clenched fist and valiant yard.
Natural infirmities were out of mode,
For Death was young again; patron alone
Of healthy dying, premature fate-spasm. Fear made fine bed-fellows. Sick with delight
At life's discovered transitoriness,
Our youth became all-flesh and waived the mind.
Never was such antiqueness of romance,
Such tasty honey oozing from the heart.
And old importances came swimming back—
Wine, meat, log-fired, a roof over the head,
A weapon at the thigh, surgeons at call.
Even there was a use again for God—
A word of rage in lack of meat, wine, fire,
In ache of wounds beyond all surgeoning. War was return of earth to ugly earth,
War was foundering of sublimities,

Extinction of each happy art and faith
By which the world has still kept head in air,
Protesting logic or protesting love,
Until the unendurable moment struck—
The inward scream, the duty to run mad. And we recall the merry ways of guns—
Nibbling the walls of factory and church
Like a child, piecrust; felling groves of trees
Like a child, dandelions with a switch.
Machine-guns rattle toy-like from a hill,
Down in a row the brave tin-soldiers fall:
A sight to be recalled in elder days
When learnedly the future we devote
To yet more boastful visions of despair.