Poetry by Will Stanton

My interests in space arts and time arts, especially fine music, all have taken precedence  over any consistent pursuit of poetry.  Yet, when I encounter well crafted poetry with themes that speak to me, I am deeply moved.  I already have spoken of my great appreciation for the poetic craft and thought-provoking themes of Charles Bryant's original poetry and amplified translations (available on YouTube).  For this little group's touch upon today's topic of poetry, I am presenting short poems from two other people, both whose lives as well as their creations have been meaningful to me.

The first poem is from my late partner James.  For James, composing poetry was just one of his several interests, yet he approached his writing quite seriously.  For example, James had the intellect and talent to tackle translating the esoteric and complex poems of the nineteenth century French poet Gérard de Nerval.  For comparison, I read two books of already published English translations.  I found James' understanding of the poems and skill in maintaining poetic quality equal to one of the volumes and far superior to the other.  My humble assessment was supported when none other than the acclaimed American poet and literary translator Richard Wilbur complimented him on his translations.

Yet, James could create simple, more easily accessible poems, too, poems that the general public could appreciate.  One such published poem was “Night Child.”

She wanted much to understand how the skies

watch silver-eyed across a purple night,

to learn at last how early mornings rise,

James

and fathom fragile dewdrops caught with light.

She wanted much to comprehend the way

that flowers celebrate the sun, which flows,

they said, on yellow contours of the day,

and contemplate the fashions of the rose.

She wanted much to know for once how clouds

graze on a languid sky like flocks of sheep

or change to unicorns or make grave crowds

of graybeards dreaming through an azure sleep.

And much she marveled as her fingers read

of such a world as blue and green and red. © JHM

For the next poem, it was like being punched in the gut the first time that I heard it recited.  I care deeply about good people, and I despise violence and war.  This poem was written near the end of World War I.  I had gone to see the 1997 film “Regeneration,” (DVD released in the U.S. titled “Behind the Lines”) which was based upon the book by Pat Barker.  The story centered upon the lives of British officers who were suffering, from what at the time was referred to as, “shell shock.”   They had been sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital in Scotland for psychiatric treatment.  Some of the poor souls appeared to be permanently scarred emotionally.  For the less traumatized, the goal was to make those walking wounded sound enough to send them back to the front.

Among them was the gentle soul of Wilfred Owen, a budding poet.  There he met and was encouraged to write by the noted poet Siegfried Sassoon, who had been sent to Craiglockhart after he had thrown away his war medal and spoke out publicly against the insanity of war.  Sassoon had written war poetry that was true and realistic, in marked contrast to simple patriotic poetry such as that of Rupert Brooke.  Sassoon encouraged Owen to do the same.

The Craiglockhart psychiatrists (or “alienists,” as they were known at the time) managed to persuade Owen to return to the front.  Just one week before the declared armistice, Owen was killed crossing a canal in northern France.  The irony and tragedy of Owen's death still haunts me.

The finalé of the film included an off-screen voice reciting Owen's poem “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young.“  The poem, as well as the whole film, moved me so deeply that I returned for a second viewing and later purchased the DVD.

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

and took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Wilfred Owen

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,

And builded parapets and trenches there,

And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.

And lo!  An Angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him, thy son.

Behold!  Caught in the thicket by its horns,

A Ram.  Offer the Ram of pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

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© 13 May 2014 

About the Author 

  

 I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories.  I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones.  Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.