Six Young Men • National Poetry Month

Ted Hughes was inspired to write this poem after seeing a photograph of six young men taken on the eve of The Great War at Lumb Falls near Hebden Bridge. Click here to read about the plaque dedicated in that location in 2007 for the men and this poem.

Six Young Men

The celluloid of a photograph holds them well -
Six young men, familiar to their friends.
Four decades that have faded and ochre-tinged
This photograph have not wrinkled the faces or the hands.
Though their cocked hats are not now fashionable,
Their shoes shine. One imparts an intimate smile,
One chews a grass, one lowers his eyes, bashful,
One is ridiculous with cocky pride -
Six months after this picture they were all dead.

All are trimmed for a Sunday jaunt. I know
That bilberried bank, that thick tree, that black wall,
Which are there yet and not changed. From where these sit
You hear the water of seven streams fall
To the roarer in the bottom, and through all
The leafy valley a rumouring of air go.
Pictured here, their expressions listen yet,
And still that valley has not changed its sound
Though their faces are four decades under the ground.

This one was shot in an attack and lay
Calling in the wire, then this one, his best friend,
Went out to bring him in and was shot too;
And this one, the very moment he was warned
From potting at tin-cans in no-man's land,
Fell back dead with his rifle-sights shot away.
The rest, nobody knows what they came to,
But come to the worst they must have done, and held it
Closer than their hope; all were killed.

Here see a man's photograph,
The locket of a smile, turned overnight
Into the hospital of his mangled last
Agony and hours; see bundled in it
His mightier-than-a-man dead bulk and weight:
And on this one place which keeps him alive
(In his Sunday best) see fall war's worst
Thinkable flash and rending, onto his smile
Forty years rotting into soil.

That man's not more alive whom you confront
And shake by the hand, see hale, hear speak loud,
Than any of these six celluloid smiles are,
Nor prehistoric or, fabulous beast more dead;
No thought so vivid as their smoking-blood:
To regard this photograph might well dement,
Such contradictory permanent horrors here
Smile from the single exposure and shoulder out
One's own body from its instant and heat.

by Ted Hughes

courtesy The New Oxford Book of War Poetry

Veterans Day 2016: 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 Flanders 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.

The Great War, the War to End All Wars — The First World War

courtesy MetaPicture.

The Great War in Fiction: The Innocents

The Great War was a huge game-changer. Modern warfare changed the landscape, literally: many of the terms in our current lexicon are thanks to the war, which we have the great misfortune of knowing now was the "first" world war.

It was unimaginable.

The Innocents goes a long way into making modern readers understand the horrors of this particular war.

Identical twins Iris and Dorthea had a difficult life. Their mother died at their birth, their father died during their childhood — so they were essentially "raised" by their (much) older brother in the opulent wealth of Eastern élite at the turn of the twentieth century. In his defense, he didn't really quite understand what it took to do that. Any mistakes were made out of ignorance, more so than intentional neglect.

Despite their privilege and opportunity, the women came to life when taking action during adversity. First, it was the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911, which was considered one of the worst disasters of New York City until the unfathomable horror that occurred early in the next century. Soon, their beloved France was deep in war, and America was poised on the brink. These women again wanted to make a difference, and the American Red Cross sent them to the French front to work as nurses. Never were they more focused than in the field hospital where, as les anges, they spoke quietly to the men who lived long enough to make it to their care, wiping fear and blood from soldiers' brows.

Even in the midst of war, they never totally escape their contemporaries, however, encountering acquaintances, not to mention at least one fighter pilot who could tell the difference between identical twins. In the madness of war, their lives were forever changed.

Author Caroline Seebohm's characters are recognizable, but not familiar. She may introduce the efficient hospital administrator, but there is no one quite like the efficient and calm Sister. Fighter pilots are never quite like Harry, a hero of Harvard's football field and hockey rink who took risks in the air much like he did on the ice.  Maurice starts out totally unassuming, but there's something about him that catches the attention of readers (and a certain identical twin). The rich, the vapid, the completely clueless Americans file past with names recognized in history and literature, adding credence to the twins' understanding of their life before the front.

Seebohm captures beautifully the horror and darkness of the Great War, the degradation of spirit as the days continue and the unimaginable unfolds before them. Each chapter has a date and location on it, so readers know where they are in history and watch the war — and life beyond the war — progress.

This is a worthy novel to join the genre that captures the loss of innocence the Great War brought about. Thanks to BBC dramas of this time period making their way across the pond, I hope more readers will seek Seebohm's bold and unflinching novel. It is worthy of their time.

A Century Ago, A World Ago

Ninety-three years ago today, the Great War ended.  It was a brutal war in ways we never imagined.  We found and used techniques and technology that changed the fundamental application and understanding of "war."

Barbed wire, mustard gas, foxholes, trench warfare, machine guns, shell shock, the Lost Generation, no man's land — thanks to what we now call World War I, all of these are part of our lexicon.  Every nation was appalled, sickened and saddened by that which we had wrought: mass casualties, mass destruction, world war.

Think about that phrase for a moment: world war.  It didn't exist before the 20th century.

In the wake of the Great War, the World War, the War to End All Wars, nations tried to come together to prevent another.  They established international organizations to address issues and concerns globally, to embrace pacifism, to bring about peace in our time.  With the Treaty of Versailles, they thought they would keep it from happening again.

We all know how that worked out.

World War I officially ended with a cease fire scheduled for 11 a.m. November 11, 1918.  We began by recognizing Armistice Day, then evolving it into Veterans Day, for all who serve.

Nearly a century later, we rely still on those who have and will give all.  "Thanks" isn't enough, but I hope it will do until we can give them what they really deserve: no reason to take up arms.

The fields in Flanders, Belgium, where the earth was churned by battle and burial of the casualties of war, were covered in poppies.  John McCrae wrote this memorable poem after presiding over a friend's funeral.

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 Flanders 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.