War poets

War Poets

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The theme of war

The theme of war was not new to the literary world: the first major piece of writing in the English language, Beowulf, was written in the 8th century and is about a warrior hero fighting to defend his kingdom. However, war literature had been written by civilians who observed and reflected upon war from a distance. The outbreak of the First World War gave rise to a vast production of writing about war that had no precedent in the history of British literature.

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The style changed with time: it became more innovative and modern

But themes and styles of the poets could be very different. Rupert Brooke for example wrote about patriotism, while Sasson wrote about anger and protested against the war.

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Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

At the beginning, the war was expected to be short, painless and clear-cut and, young men decided to fight for their country. Brooke tends to glorify war and the romantic notion of sacrifice and heroism.

But he didn’t experience the cruelty of the war because he was in the hospital for blood poisoning.

The Soldier (1914)

Se dovessi morire, pensa solo questo di me: Che ci sarà un angolo di un campo straniero Che sarà per sempre Inghilterra. Ci sarà nascosta In quella terra ricca una polvere più ricca; Una polvere che l’Inghilterra faceva nascere, formava, cresceva, Che, una volta, gli offriva i suoi fiori ad amare, i suoi sentieri ad esplorare: Un corpo dall'Inghilterra che respirava aria inglese, Lavato dai fiumi, benedetto dai soli di casa. E pensa a questo cuore, liberato di ogni male, Come un battito nella mente eterna, che ugualmente, Da qualche parte, restituisce i pensieri donati dall’Inghilterra; Le sue viste ed i suoi suoni, sogni felici come una giornata inglese; E risate, apprese dagli amici, e la dolcezza, Dei cuori in pace, sotto un cielo inglese.

If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

While the war progressed, so did the doubts of the soldiers. Owen' works are full of pain and pathos.

Dulce et Decorum Est (1917)

Piegati in due, come vecchi straccioni, sacchi in spalla Le ginocchia ricurve, una tosse da streghe, imprecavano nel fango, Finché volte le spalle agli ossessivi bagliori Verso il riposo lontano cominciammo ad arrancare. Gli uomini marciavano dormendo. Molti, persi gli stivali, Zoppicavano, calzati di sangue. Tutti zoppi; tutti ciechi; Ubriachi di stanchezza; sordi perfino al sibilo Delle bombe a gas che cadevano sommesse. Gas! GAS! Dài, ragazzi! - Una frenesia cieca, Le goffe maschere sul viso appena in tempo; Ma qualcuno ancora gridava e inciampava Dimenandosi come un uomo fra le fiamme o nella calce… [..] Amico mio, tu non ripeteresti con tanto fervore Ai figli assetati di disperata gloria, La vecchia menzogna: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime... [..] My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

John McCrae

John was Canadian, and he fought during the World War I and he led a hospital at the front.

In Flanders fields

Sui campi delle Fiandre spuntano i papaveritra le croci, fila dopo fila, che ci segnano il posto; e nel cielo le allodole, cantando ancora con coraggio, volano appena udite tra i cannoni, sotto. Noi siamo i Morti. Pochi giorni fa eravamo vivi, sentivamo l'alba, vedevamo risplendere il tramonto, amanti e amati. Ma adesso giacciamo sui campi delle Fiandre. Riprendete voi la lotta col nemico: a voi passiamo la torcia, con le nostre mani cadenti, e sian le vostre a tenerla alta. e se non ci ricorderete, noi che moriamo, non dormiremo anche se i papaveri cresceranno sui campi di Fiandra.

In Flander’s fields, the poppies blow Between crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky Tha larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below We are the dead, short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flander’s field , in Flander’s fields And now we lie in Flander’s fields Take up our quarrel with the foe To you from falling hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, thug poppies grow In Flander’s fields.