Siegfried Sassoon's Papers Go on Display

[ladyDeWint]

Hand-written treasures from the personal archive of one of WWI's great poets, Siegfried Sassoon, are on public display for the first time - at Cambridge University Library. With curator John Wells, see how Sassoon's writing in the trenches was affected by the horrors that he witnessed on the Western Front.

BBC

[Meryl575]

Funny you should post this as I have been chatting about it today on Face Book Now interested in reading the trilogy of Pat Barker's books and seeing "Journey's End" and 'Behind the Lines" (Regeneration). Sassoon's and Owen's poems bring to life what horrors occurred in this War. I read where they were both diagnosed as "shell shock." Apparently this was to help Sassoon from being court-martial when he turned against the war. Thanks for keeping us up-date on all these interesting facts ladyDeWint. I would love to have seen this at Cambridge.

[marilyn]

I'd have liked to see them too Meryl - we studied the WW1 poets at school and I loved them

[Grundle]

I like the "War Poets" too, but they are often a bitter cup to sip.

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them away.

About this time Town used to be so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
-In the old time, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girl’s waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He’s lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he’d drunk a peg,
He thought he’d better join. – He wonders why.
Someone had said he’d look a God in kilts,
That’s why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn’t have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt
And Austria’s, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal,
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits,
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the womens eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don’t they come
And put him into bed? Why don’t they come?

Wilfred Owen

[marilyn]

[johnworc]

The war poets managed to pass on what they'd seen and experienced in a way no-one else seemed able to. Those in the wars mostly preferred not to speak of what they'd gone through. I hadn't seen that Owen poem before, Grundle, but thanks for posting it. Their poetry was remarkably good, though not conveying experiences we want to share too often.