Some desperate glory The First World War the poets knew

Max Egremont, 1948-

Book - 2014

Examines "the life and work of [the WWI poets--many of whom were killed--which shows not only the war's tragedy but also the hopes and disappointments of a generation of men]: Wilfred Owen with his flaring genius; the intense, compassionate Siegfried Sassoon; the composer Ivor Gurney; Robert Graves, who would later spurn his war poems; the nature-loving Edward Thomas; the glamorous Fabian Socialist Rupert Brooke; and the shell-shocked Robert Nichols--all fought in the war, and their poetry is a bold act of creativity in the face of unprecedented destruction"--Amazon.com.

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Subjects
Published
New York : Farrar, Straus and Giroux 2014.
Language
English
Main Author
Max Egremont, 1948- (-)
Edition
First American edition
Physical Description
xi, 337 pages, 8 unnumbered pages of plates : illustrations ; 24 cm
Bibliography
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN
9780374280321
Contents unavailable.
Review by Choice Review

Published in concert with the hundredth anniversary of the beginning of WW I, this study provides a chronological exploration of the war, which many believed would be "the war to end all wars," through the lens of 11 male poets-Rupert Brooke, Charles Sorley, Siegfried Sassoon, Isaac Rosenberg, Edward Thomas, Wilfred Owen, Ivor Gurney, Edmund Blunden, Julian Grenfell, Robert Nichols, Robert Graves. Each of these men experienced the war, in some capacity, as a member of the military. Egremont borrows his title from British officer Edwin Campion Vaughan's grim diary account, by the same title (1981), of the first eight months of 1917. Egremont's book is essentially an anthology of poetry paired with brief forays into somewhat romanticized literary history and military tribute. The "Prelude" and "Aftermath" sections provide some insightful material, but even these offer not so much an argument or analysis of the time period and these poets' contributions as an assertion of their importance ("how it was, for them, to be there"). Stylistically accessible, the narrative parts, as a whole, perpetuate an uncomplicated myth of war experience, patriotism, and heroism, essentially silencing or ignoring decades of scholarly research and criticism on WW I's effects, consequences, and relevance to women, men, and children of today's culture of "endless war." Summing Up: Not recommended --Jean Mills, John Jay College-CUNY

Copyright American Library Association, used with permission.
Review by Booklist Review

Biographer-novelist Egremont goes the extra mile with his selection of Britain's WWI poetry. Focusing on the 11 soldiers who wrote the best and most famous war poetry, he presents their poems chronologically, in five sets of poems written in each of the war's five years and a final set of postwar work. He prefaces each set with an account of what happened to the poets during the time in which they wrote them. He introduces everything with a Prelude about the run-up to the war, especially for his 11 selectees. As former public-school boys or, in Edward Thomas' case, an established professional, 9 were junior officers. They were variously shot, gassed, shell-shocked, retired from the front, and driven mad. Six were killed, and line soldier Ivor Gurney, as gifted a composer as a poet, spent most of his postwar years in mental asylums. Hardly supplanting comprehensive anthologies like Tim Kendall's Poetry of the First World War (2013), ­Egremont's group-biography-cum-anthology impressively accounts for how the allusion is to Wilfred Owen the pity came to be in the poetry.--Olson, Ray Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Novelist and biographer Egremont (Forgotten Land) offers an unsentimental retrospective of WWI through searing reports of "eleven fragile young men who were unlikely warriors." Mapping their experiences and poems year by year, he traces how the "patriotic emotion" of Rupert Brooke's "The Soldier" disintegrates into the bitter stoicism of Siegfried Sassoon's satires, or the grim compassion of Wilfred Owen's "Dulce Et Decorum Est." The poets's war, Egremont argues, "was seen as the truth," a vision of "incessant mechanical slaughter" that imbued British policy, memory, and literary tradition with a sense of "victimhood" and "pessimism." In focusing on biography, poetic composition and reception, and what the poets thought of each other, Egremont doesn't offer much detail about the war itself. His literary analysis tends to be broad-Isaac Rosenberg's "Dead Men's Dump" depicts "nature's obliviousness to human destruction"-and he defines the aesthetic of war poetry mainly by how it differs from modernism. However, his tale cannot fail to be touching; six of the poets die in the war, including Owen, a week before armistice. The book serves as a preface to the soaring poems themselves, as the doomed writers chronicle "the sacrifice of innocents against a relentless enemy." Agent: Gill Coleridge, Rogers, Coleridge & White. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

Poetry reveals the devastating trajectory of war.On the centennial anniversary of the start of World War I, historian Egremont (Forgotten Land: Journeys Among the Ghosts of East Prussia, 2011, etc.) considers the intersecting lives and work of 11 British poets who were soldiers and esteemed contributors to the burgeoning genre of war poetry. Many of the author's subjects are likely to be familiar to readers, including Rupert Brooke, Charles Sorley, Siegfried Sassoon, Isaac Rosenberg, Edward Thomas, Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves; others, such as Edmund Blunden and Julian Grenfell, are lesser known today. During the war, Egremont writes, "the poets began to be lionized," invited to give readings in elite salons and sought by publishers. Six chapters focus on each year of war and its aftermath, offering an adroit biographical and historical overview, followed by a selection of poems that chronicle the writers' spirits, as they changed "from enthusiasm to pitiful weariness," from hope to disillusion. "Cast away regret and rue," Charles Sorley wrote in 1914. "Think what you are marching to." By January 1915, his letter to a friend revealed a deepening sense of dismay: "We don't seem to be winning, do we? It looks like an affair of years." A few months later, he began a poem with lines that could have served as his epitaph: "Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: / Only an empty pail." In October, aged 20, he was killed by a sniper. Owen, held in high regard by Sassoon, was killed, age 25, in 1918; Brooke, Thomas and Grenfell were already dead. Those who survivede.g., Sassoon and Graves"couldn't leave the war, even ifthey wanted to move on.""What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?" Owen asked in his "Anthem for Doomed Youth." For Egremont, the poems serve as "holy glimmers" of lives lost and as powerful protests against the hell of war. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

1914 POEMS 'All the Hills and Vales Along' - Charles Sorley 'On Receiving News of the War: Cape Town' - Isaac Rosenberg 'Peace' - Rupert Brooke 'The Dead' - Rupert Brooke 'To Germany' - Charles Sorley 'The Soldier' - Rupert Brooke 'The Combe' - Edward Thomas All the Hills and Vales Along All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping. Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath, For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour. Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad 'Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you. Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth's head, So be merry, so be dead. From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of song Ringing all the road along. All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute. On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song. Sow your gladness for earth's reaping, So you may be glad, though sleeping. Strew your gladness on earth's bed, So be merry, so be dead. CHARLES SORLEY On Receiving News of the War: Cape Town Snow is a strange white word. No ice or frost Have asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost. Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know, No man knows why. In all men's hearts it is. Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould. Red fangs have torn His face. God's blood is shed. He mourns from His lone place His children dead. O! ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume. Give back this universe Its pristine bloom. ISAAC ROSENBERG Peace Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping, With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power, To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping, Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary, Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move, And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary, And all the little emptiness of love! Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there, Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending, Naught broken save this body, lost but breath; Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there But only agony, and that has ending; And the worst friend and enemy is but Death. RUPERT BROOKE The Dead Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away, poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage. RUPERT BROOKE To Germany You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. CHARLES SORLEY The Soldier If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever 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 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. RUPERT BROOKE The Combe The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark. Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar; And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk By beech and yew and perishing juniper Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter, The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper, Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark The Combe looks since they killed the badger there, Dug him out and gave him to the hounds, That most ancient Briton of English beasts. EDWARD THOMAS Copyright © 2014 by Max Egremont Excerpted from The First World War the Poets Knew by Max Egremont All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.