Georgian Poetry 1918-19 Part 14

Are they not still your brothers through our blood?'

BANISHMENT

I am banished from the patient men who fight.

They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.

Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light.

Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight They went arrayed in honour. But they died,-- Not one by one: and mutinous I cried To those who sent them out into the night.

The darkness tells how vainly I have striven To free them from the pit where they must dwell In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel.

Love drives me back to grope with them through h.e.l.l; And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.

REPRESSION OF WAR EXPERIENCE

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; What silly beggars they are to blunder in And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- No, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts That drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.

Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, And you're as right as rain....

Why won't it rain?...

I wish there'd be a thunderstorm to-night, With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, And make the roses hang their dripping heads.

Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, And every kind of colour. Which will you read?

Come on; O _do_ read something; they're so wise.

I tell you all the wisdom of the world Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, And listen to the silence: on the ceiling There's one big, dizzy moth that b.u.mps and flutters; And in the breathless air outside the house The garden waits for something that delays.

There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- Not people killed in battle,--they're in France,-- But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died Slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.

You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; You'd never think there was a b.l.o.o.d.y war on!...

O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.

Hark! Thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- Those whispering guns--O Christ, I want to go out And screech at them to stop--I'm going crazy; I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

DOES IT MATTER

Does it matter?--losing your legs?...

For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When the others come in after hunting To gobble their m.u.f.fins and eggs.

Does it matter?--losing your sight?...

There's such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?--those dreams from the pit?...

You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won't say that you're mad; For they'll know that you've fought for your country, And no one will worry a bit.

CONCERT PARTY

(Egyptian Base Camp).

They are gathering round ...

Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand, Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound-- The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum ...

Drawn by a lamp, they come Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land, You warbling ladies in white.

Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces, This wall of faces risen out of the night, These eyes that keep their memories of the places So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale, He rattles the keys ... Some actor-bloke from town ...

'G.o.d send you home'; and then 'A long, long trail; I hear you calling me'; and 'Dixieland'....

Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.

Silent, I watch the shadowy ma.s.s of soldiers stand.

Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.

KANTARA, April, 1918.

SONGBOOKS OF THE WAR

In fifty years, when peace outshines Remembrance of the battle lines, Adventurous lads will sigh and cast Proud looks upon the plundered past.

On summer morn or winter's night, Their hearts will kindle for the fight, Reading a s.n.a.t.c.h of soldier-song, Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong; And through the angry marching rhymes Of blind regret and haggard mirth, They'll envy us the dazzling times When sacrifice absolved our earth.

Some ancient man with silver locks Will lift his weary face to say: 'War was a fiend who stopped our clocks Although we met him grim and gay.'

And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive, Marvelling that any came alive Out of the shambles that men built And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt.

But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance, Will think, 'Poor grandad's day is done.'

And dream of those who fought in France And lived in time to share the fun.

THE PORTRAIT

I watch you, gazing at me from the wall, And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, I could call You back to share this quiet candle-shine.

For you were young, three hundred years ago; And by your looks I guess that you were wise ...

Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.

Strange is your voice ... Poor ninny, dead so long, And all your pride forgotten like your name.

_'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song.

And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'_

And so you died before your songs took wing; While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake.

_'Love thrilled me into music. I could sing But for a moment,--but for beauty's sake.'_

Who pa.s.ses? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom.