The first part of the 20th Century saw many poets who experienced the wages of war, either in the Great War or in the smaller battles in Ireland . Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon, Robert Graves, Wilfred Owen, the American Joyce Kilmer, Canadian John McCrae, and many others define the experience of the Great War in a way different from almost any other conflict. This period remains defined and understood by its poetry, yet I am sure the works of these men are so little read today. If we are to really to understand the agonies they endured, we need to look at some of their poems.
“The First World War inspired profound poetry – words in which the atmosphere and landscape of battle were evoked perhaps more vividly than ever before.
The poets – many of whom lost their lives – became a collective voice , illuminating not only the war’s tragedies and their irreparable effects, but the hopes and disappointments of an entire generation.”
These men were scarred by the horrors they saw, and many of them struggled to reconcile their trauma with the ordinary events of daily life through their poetry.
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| Brooke, McCrae, Owen |
RUPERT BROOKE was already an established poet and literary figure before the outbreak of the First World War. When war broke out he joined a newly-formed unit, the 2nd Naval Brigade, Royal Naval Division.
In the last months of 1914 he wrote the five 'war sonnets' that were to make him famous, including 'Peace' and 'The Soldier'. He was travelling to the Dardanelles with the Hood Battalion, in March 1915, when he was taken ill in Egypt island of Skyros. There, he suffered an insect bite which became infected and he died of blood poisoning on 23 April. He was buried in an olive grove on the island.
ROBERT GRAVES was the son of a British father and a German mother. He won a classical scholarship to St John's College , Oxford
He was sent to France
While in France , Graves became a close friend of fellow officer, Siegfried Sassoon, and supported him during his notorious anti-war 'protest'. Sassoon's influence showed in Graves 's early poems. His acclaimed autobiography, “Goodbye to All That”, based largely on his wartime experiences, was published in 1929. He moved to Majorca that year and worked as a poet, scholar, dramatist, critic and novelist until his death at the age of 90.
WILFRED OWEN was in France working as a private tutor when war was declared He returned to England France Britain Craiglockhart War Hospital
Owen returned to France
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Lieutenant Colonel JOHN McCRAE, MD was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist and soldier during World War I, and a surgeon during the Second Battle of Ypres, in Belgium. He is best known for writing the famous war memorial poem "In Flanders Fields". McCrae died of pneumonia near the end of the war.
In April 1915, McCrae was stationed in the trenches near Ypres , Belgium , in an area known as Flanders , during the bloody Second Battle of Ypres. In the midst of the tragic warfare, McCrae’s friend, twenty-two-year-old Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed by artillery fire and buried in a makeshift grave. The following day, McCrae, after seeing the field of makeshift graves blooming with wild poppies, wrote his famous poem “In Flanders Fields,” which would be the second-to-last poem he would ever write.
“In Flanders Fields” became popular almost immediately upon its publication. It was translated into other languages. The poppy soon became known as the flower of remembrance for the men and women in Britain , France , the United States , and Canada Canada and Europe, as well as Memorial Day and Veterans Day celebrations in the United States
Soon after writing “In Flanders Fields,” McCrae was transferred to a hospital in France
"In Flanders Fields"
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The 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
InFlanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The 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
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.