AFTER DUNKIRK
I have been silent a lifetime *pacifist/ contemplated being conscientious objector
As a stabbed man,
And stolid, showing nothing
As a refugee
But inwardly I have wept. *inference is that he struggled with his feelings of pacifism
The blood has flown inwardly into the spirit
Through the gaping wound of the world.
And only the little worm,
The small white tapeworm of the soul,
Lived on unknown within my blood.
But now I have this boon, to speak again, *benefit/blessing
I have no more desire to express
The old relationships, of love fulfilled
Or stultified, capacity for pain,
Nor to say gracefully all that the poets have said
Of one or other of the old compulsions.
For now the times are gathered for confession.
First, then, remember Faith
Haggard with thoughts that complicate
What statemen's speeches try to simplify;
Horror of war, the ear half-catching
Rumours of rape in crumbling towns; *atrocities of war
Love of mankind, impelling men
To murder and to mutilate;
and then
Despair of man that nurtures self-contempt *psychologically damaged by war
And makes men toss their careless lives away; left depleted and feeling worthless
While joy becomes an idiot's grin
Fixed in a shaving mirror in whose glass
The brittle systems of the world revolve.
And next, the rough immediate life of camp
And barracks where the phallic bugle rules
The regimented orchestra of love;
The subterfuge of democracy, the stench
Of breath in crowded tents, the grousing queues,
And bawdy songs incessantly resung
And dull relaxing in the dirty bar;
I have been silent a lifetime *pacifist/ contemplated being conscientious objector
As a stabbed man,
And stolid, showing nothing
As a refugee
But inwardly I have wept. *inference is that he struggled with his feelings of pacifism
The blood has flown inwardly into the spirit
Through the gaping wound of the world.
And only the little worm,
The small white tapeworm of the soul,
Lived on unknown within my blood.
But now I have this boon, to speak again, *benefit/blessing
I have no more desire to express
The old relationships, of love fulfilled
Or stultified, capacity for pain,
Nor to say gracefully all that the poets have said
Of one or other of the old compulsions.
For now the times are gathered for confession.
First, then, remember Faith
Haggard with thoughts that complicate
What statemen's speeches try to simplify;
Horror of war, the ear half-catching
Rumours of rape in crumbling towns; *atrocities of war
Love of mankind, impelling men
To murder and to mutilate;
and then
Despair of man that nurtures self-contempt *psychologically damaged by war
And makes men toss their careless lives away; left depleted and feeling worthless
While joy becomes an idiot's grin
Fixed in a shaving mirror in whose glass
The brittle systems of the world revolve.
And next, the rough immediate life of camp
And barracks where the phallic bugle rules
The regimented orchestra of love;
The subterfuge of democracy, the stench
Of breath in crowded tents, the grousing queues,
And bawdy songs incessantly resung
And dull relaxing in the dirty bar;
