Thursday, 2 March 2017

Behind Their Lines: The Last Song

From Behind Their Lines: The last song:

Anna Akhmatova
By 1917, the number of Russian soldiers who were injured, dead, missing, or held as prisoners of war was approaching five million men. The situation on the home front was equally bleak: over 400,000 Russian civilians were killed as a result of military action in the First World War, and another 730,000 civilians died due to famine and disease. Three years of horrific death and slaughter had given rise to a national mood of hopeless despair. When the Russian Revolution began on March 8th, 1917, few doubted the central role that the Great War had played in the unrest that led to the eventual overthrow of Russia’s monarchist government. 

Anna Akhmatova, one of the foremost Russian poets of the twentieth century, shaped the chaos into poetry. She had written about the start of the war in her poem “In Memoriam, July 19, 1914”: “We aged a hundred years, and it / all happened in an hour.” In the midst of the 1917 revolution, she composed the haunting poem “Now no-one will be listening to songs.”

Now no-one will be listening to songs.
The days long prophesied have come to pass.
The world has no more miracles. Don't break
My heart, song, but be still: you are the last.

Not long ago you took your morning flight
With all a swallow's free accomplishment.
Now that you are a hungry beggar-woman,
Don't go knocking at the stranger's gate.
                        Translated by D.M. Thomas

Repeated throughout the poem are images of isolation and alienation: the solitary beggar, the stranger who has barred himself behind his gate, the last song, and the loneliness of “no-one.” Even the most desperately needy will find no hospitality or place to shelter, for this is a world bereft of miracles. 

The poem recalls a past when music soared like a bird, yet in a new world born out of violence, the “bitter days foretold [have] come over the hill.”* The turbulence of revolution may have created its own discordant noise like nothing heard before – but it is not a song. 

Akhmatova’s poem is itself a dirge, bidding a melancholy farewell to the traditional tunes of folklore that have joined communities and connected the past to the present.  Addressing song itself, the poet pleads with it to be silent, for the last surviving melody sings of a past that can never be recovered – and that tune has the power to break the heart. 
Russian cavalry on Eastern Front, WWI
* This from Stanley Kunitz’s translation of the poem’s second line. 

Behind Their Lines: A Memory

Armenians, WWI
War is waged by men only, but it is not possible to wage it upon men only. All wars are and must be waged upon women and children as well as upon men.
                        -- British journalist Helena M. Swanwick, “Women and War,” 1915.

Contemporary understandings of the First World War have been significantly shaped by the trench poets of the Western Front, particularly the writings of Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon. However, the effects of World War I were felt far beyond the trenches; this modern, industrialized war also targeted civilians in long-range artillery bombardments, U-boat attacks, zeppelin raids, military reprisals, and trade blockades.  

While it is difficult to precisely account for deaths in the First World War, an estimated 11 million men who served in the military or in military support roles died.  What is less well known is the impact of the war on noncombatants: it is thought that between 6.5 and 7 million civilians died as a result of the war.  These deaths include those who were executed or killed in military actions, as well as those who were the victims of genocide, famine, and disease that were directly related to the war (the statistic does not include those who died as a result of the Spanish flu, the Russian Revolution, or the Turkish War of Independence).  While many know that nearly 20,000 British soldiers were killed on the first day of the Somme, few are aware that an estimated 30,000 Serbian civilians were executed by Austro-Hungarian forces; nearly 250,000 civilians died in Poland due to famine and disease, and another 300,000 in France – both numbers dwarfed by the 730,000 civilians who perished in Russia as a result of starvation and disease attributed to the conflict.*

The voices of noncombatants and women have often been marginalized in relating the subject and pity of The Great War.  Margaret Sackville’s poem “A Memory” turns its gaze on the civilians whose tragedies blur the boundaries between the war and the home front.   

Night Bombing, William Orpen
© IWM (Art.IWM ART 2994)
A Memory

There was no sound at all, no crying in the village,
Nothing you would count as sound, that is, after the shells;
Only behind a wall the low sobbing of women,
The creaking of a door, a lost dog — nothing else.

Silence which might be felt, no pity in the silence,
Horrible, soft like blood, down all the blood-stained ways;
In the middle of the street two corpses lie unburied,
And a bayoneted woman stares in the market-place.

Humble and ruined folk — for these no pride of conquest,
Their only prayer: "O! Lord, give us our daily bread!"
Not by the battle fires, the shrapnel are we haunted;
Who shall deliver us from the memory of these dead? 
                         --Margaret Sackville

The poem opens on a scene of unnatural quiet. There is neither pity nor mercy in the stillness, but rather a palpable silence, a dense emptiness that bears the weight of absence and loss.  If the silence is soft, it is soft like blood that pools under a corpse. This is a tense quiet; it vibrates with stifled sobs and silent screams as an onlooker stares at bodies torn open and a world ripped apart. 

The troops and the violence have passed on, leaving in their wake the blankness of death and shock. The unburied bodies are not those of soldiers nor the dead of No Man’s Land, but the “humble and ruined folk” whose bodies sprawl unnaturally in the marketplace and lie in the middle of a village street. There has been shellfire, but not all the violence has been delivered anonymously from a safe distance: a woman has been bayoneted -- killed at arm’s length by a soldier.  Her body stares sightlessly at the sky. 

Serbian executions
The war has spilled out beyond its boundaries, and the memory of this “still life” village has the quality of a horrific wound: grotesque, unreal, and unforgettable. And yet, in grim irony, these dead have been largely forgotten.  The poem’s last line asks, “Who shall deliver us from the memory of these dead?” While it is a rhetorical question, most centenary commemorations of the First World War seek to remember in ceremonies, cemeteries, poems, and public memorials the military men who were killed.  Much less often do we remember the civilians who died, all those who, as described in another Sackville poem, “Quietly… lie beneath your armies’ feet.”**

*For an overview on the human cost of the war, see “World War I Casualties.”
**From Sackville’s poem “Victory.” For other poems on the war’s effect on civilians, see Margaret Widdemer’s “Homes,” Maria Benneman’s “Visé,” and May Sinclair’s “After the Retreat.”  Marian Allen’s “And what is war?” also uses the image of a door ajar in the wind to suggest the haunted quality of empty homes and villages.

Salonica refugees, WWI

* This from Stanley Kunitz’s translation of the poem’s second line. 

Thursday, 17 November 2016

Behind Their Lines: Kneeling in the Mud

Over 5,000 British priests and pastors served as army chaplains or padres during the First World War.  Their job was to provide spiritual guidance for the soldiers and to boost the morale of the men at the front.  The grim realities of the job included scenes they hardly could have imagined. 

Often stationed just behind the lines at first aid posts and casualty clearing stations, padres ministered to wounded and dying men.  In a war in which bodies were often torn apart or abandoned in No Man's Land, padres assisted in retrieving and identifying soldiers' remains and giving them burial.  They frequently had to deliver news of men's death to their comrades-in-arms, and theirs was the gut-wrenching duty of providing solace to men who had deserted and were to be shot by their fellow soldiers at dawn.  The BBC webpage "Why did chaplains end up on the front line in WW1?" tells more of their stories.   

Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy was not only a padre, but a poet.  His poem "Lighten our Darkness," shares the struggles of a man wrestling with his faith and his God in the midst of war. 

Lighten our Darkness by Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy

Lighten our darkness, Lord, in bygone years,
Oft have I prayed and thought on childish fears,
Glad in my heart that, when the day was dead,
God's four white angels watched about my bed.

Lighten our darkness! Kneeling in the mud,
My hands still wet and warm with human blood,
Oft have I prayed it! Perils of this night!
Sorrow of soldiers! Mercy, give us light.

Lighten our darkness! Black upon the mind
Questions and doubts, so many paths that wind,
Worlds of blind sorrow crying out for sight.
Peace, where is Peace? Lord Jesus, give us light.

Lighten our darkness! Stumbling to the end,
Millions of mortals feeling for a friend,
Shall not the judge of all the earth do right?
Flame through the darkness, Lord, and give us Light.

For the rest of this blog see Behind Their Lines: Kneeling in the Mud 

Tuesday, 13 September 2016

"Merchant Prince" Coveney Too Busy To Do His Job

The sewage from thirty nine homes has continued to pour out onto the beach at Doldrum Bay all Summer. It is still flowing undisturbed into the beautiful and protected coastal Howth environment.

Irish Water have committed via the EPA to a short term solution being in place by the end of September. This short term solution consists of putting a pipe out into the sea and diverting the sewage off the beach.

This will still be an illegal discharge and they will remain in breach of their Ringsend License. It also raises questions about their right to carry out work on the foreshore at all. Irish Water have assured the EPA that they are moving forward with a long term solution.

An unsightly and unauthorised warning sign has been installed on the cliffs 15 minutes walk from the site of the discharge. It has no name or contact details on it but presumably was erected by Irish Water.

Regarding the petition - Mr. Patrick Jackson has repeatedly tried to contact Simon Coveney via email, social media and at his offices in an attempt to arrange a handover of the document. He has received no reply or acknowledgment.

Unfortunately, it would seem that our petitioning efforts have fallen on deaf ears and a firmly closed door despite Minister Coveney having boasted that his door would always be open to people concerned about the marine environment.


Saturday, 3 September 2016

Behind Their Lines: Our Mutual Dead

(Reblogged. For others interested in reading more of the lost voice of the First World War, you can follow weekly posts at Connie Ruzich's blog )

Armistice Day: the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918, when the First World War ended.

In 1916, following the death of her older brother, Margaret Sackville wrote a poem imagining that future time when the fighting and killing would cease. Men had made the war – and now it would be left to the grieving women to make the peace.


When all the stress and all the toil is over, 
And my lover lies sleeping by your lover. 
With alien earth on hands and brows and feet. 
Then we may meet. 

Moving sorrowfully with uneven paces, 
The bright sun shining on our ravaged faces, 
There, very quietly, without sound or speech, 
Each shall greet each. 

We who are bound by the same grief for ever, 
When all our sons are dead may talk together, 
Each asking pardon from the other one 
For her dead son. 

With such low, tender words the heart may fashion, 
Broken and few, of kindness and compassion, 
Knowing that we disturb at every tread 
Our mutual dead.

Margaret Sackville, published in The Pageant of War, 1916