Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum.

By PSRemeshChandra, 17th Jan 2013.  Short URL
http://nut.bz/2m900dvw/

Posted in Wikinut>Essays

Jean Jacques Bebel, the Swiss historian has calculated that in the 5000 years of the recent history of the world, only 282 years were devoid of any kind of wars. Peace is the brief interval between two wars. A shot sent at a visiting Prussian Prince and his wife by a young student at Austria, and the life of millions was shattered and the way of life of the world changed for ever. Horrors of the First World War were sung by thousands but Wilfred Owens’ poems were brought hot from the war front.

The voice of the First World War passed away, knowing not about the fame that was to come to his name.

War imminent. U S Poster by Michael P. Whelan 1914

If World War First had a voice, we can say that it was Wilfred Owen, employed in active service, singing about the horrors of war and killed in action. In his brief life time, only four of his poems were published, but after his death, dozens of them were published and brought out as books. It is believed, many of them have not still come to light. Awarded the Military Cross for bravery posthumously, he passed away in poetic anonymity, knowing not about the fame that was to come to his name in future. Speaking for men in the trenches under his leadership was what he did through his poems, which, it seems, were all written during the last two years of his life, 1917 and 1918.

Soldiers sitting in trains, in funeral decorations, going to war front.

Pre war breakfast. Ferdinand Max Bredt.

Wilfred Owen was a British poet who was killed during action in the First World War. Insensibility, Strange Meeting and The Send-Off are his most famous anti-war poems in which he brings out the pity, realism and irony of war, reflecting his and his soldiers’ negative attitude towards war. He sees no romanticism or chivalry in war, but only death, destruction and decay. True, what else is there in war except the glory of victory for a few and the shame of defeat or death for many? But when defense of one’s motherland is concerned, opinions may vary and war may have to be justified. In the poem The Send-Off, soldiers in a mountain military camp are ordered to move out to war front, who sing their way to the railway siding-sheds and line the train with faces grimly gray, meaning faces darker than black. Decorations all white, like wreath and spray, are pinned to their breasts making them already looking like dead men clad in white, sitting in a row, all looking out the train windows. We are forced to think about the tremendous thoughts streaming through those troubled souls, someone’s father, brother, uncle, one among them certainly the poet himself. The strong sentiments these and the coming scenes create in our minds move us and carry us such away that we are forced to weep, cringe and shudder, which is this poet’s victory which he enjoys standing among the stars. How many of these soldiers will ever return?

A few more minutes’ sunshine and mountain air before going to the frontier, never to return. 

Going to war. Johann Peter Krafft 1813.

A military camp normally will be a nuisance to the local people there. So exactly there were none there to give them a proper send-off. Those people might only be glad to see them all go and never return. A few dull porters and a lone tramp were the only ones there to see them go and sorry to see them going too, for they were the ones who benefited from the camp, now losing their daily bread and jam. At least the mechanically punctual railway signals, unlike the local human beings, could have shown them a little of mercy by sparing them a few more minutes’ sunshine and mountain air. But they, the unmoved signals too, nodded heartlessly, a railway lamp winked to the guard and the train began to move, all in time. They were gone.

Local girls are what add colour to mountain military camps. Farewell sisters.

Writing to father in war. Eastman Johnson 1863.

True, the soldiers were not soldiers but they were all hushed up heaps of wrongs and evil doings, the poet admits. They did wrong to the villagers and they will be doing wrong on the war front too. Therefore their losses in battle, limb or life, needn’t be regretted. All military movements are secret and under cover of night. So the people never heard to which war front these soldiers were being sent. As everywhere, the local girls were what added colour to the monotonous life in the upland camp. Romances might have budded and nipped. Tears and sighs might have been shed in darkness, and weeping farewells told in whispers. To meet and part, that is the soldier’s life. And they, the village girls, had jokingly asked them boys: cousins, will you ever return? The soldiers had mocked their words then, but after feeling the dead heat of the battle front, the poet wonders, whether they would still be mocking those meaningful words of the village women.

For those who return from field to camp alive, trodden paths would be half-forgotten in their semi-madness.

Help daddy gone to war. Norman Lindsay 1915.

Soldiers gone to war front have a lesser chance of survival and returning alive to their camp, the least in those times. Direct combat was characteristic of military operations, till this war ended, when it gave way to covert operations, carpet bombing from sky and if possible, nerve gas and nuclear attacks. But in that dawn of 20th century, war techniques had not progressed much from the primitive. Only a few of them may return perhaps, too few to receive a proper reception of bells and drums and yells. And those who do return will be invalid, silent and thirsty apparitions, not walking but creeping back silent to still village wells, up half-known roads, yearning for a place to lower their weary bodies on. Even the once-familiar roads would be half-forgotten in their semi-madness, after having gone through the unspeakable horrors of war.

Entered the services of the church, found it hopeless for the poor, and condemned it.

Mountain military camp entrance. U S Federal Govt.

Wilfred Owen was born in 1893 and brought up in a religious atmosphere by his parents. His full name was Wilfred Edward Salter Owen. Fallen from fortune, this family could scarcely provide for the education of their four children; Owen served as a teacher-student and matriculated. Theologically trained by his mother, the Bible influenced him during this period. In the Reading University, he studied botany and old English. To earn boarding, lodging and tuition fees, he served as an assistant to the vicar at Dunsden parish, this close familiarity leading to contempt of church later. Reluctance of church to get involved in helping and alleviating the pain of the poor was what infuriated him to condemn church. Disillusioned by church, he left England for France and lived there for a while tutoring English and French in private homes when war broke out.

The mother and son stood looking across the sun-glorified sea, looking towards France with broken hearts, saying goodbye to each other.

In France, Owen staying and working near Pyrenees Mountain Ranges remained totally oblivious of war for a time. But copies of The Daily Mail newspaper his mother sent to him from England opened his eyes and he began to regularly go to a nearby hospital, acquaint with a doctor and inspecting war casualties brought there each day. At last he could no longer endure his impatience and in 1915, returned to England and volunteered to fight. He was sent again to France to fight in 1916 where from he was brought back wounded and shocked for recuperating. Before going to France for war, he and his beloved mother Susan Owen ‘stood looking across the sun- glorified sea towards France with breaking hearts, saying good bye to each other’ when the son quoted Rabindranath Tagore’s words ‘when I go from hence, let this be my parting word’. Susan Owen is known to have written a letter to Tagore when he was in England. We don’t know for sure whether her letter reached Tagore after her simply writing ‘Tagore, London’ in the address column of the envelope, but we certainly know about the reputation, efficiency and dignity of the British Postal Service, especially during the war period. 

Publication of his poems in time would have prevented Viet Nam nightmare.

Reconnaissance before attack. Pedro Americo 1871.

Enlisted in 1915 into Rifles Officers’ Corps in England, shell-shocked in mortar explosion in a trench in France, and removed of all romanticism for war, he was removed to War Hospital and brought back to England for recuperating. His romantic ideas of war faded when his soldiers and he had to go through gas attacks, sleeping for months in the open in deep snow and frost, loosing friends to death and the stench of rotting dead blanketing the earth all around. War in his eyes now became just a political equation, unbalanced. No wonder he had to be admitted in the psychiatric department of the hospital. His were the same psychic experiences thousands of Viet Nam War Veterans went through decades later. Publication of his poems and experiences in time would have prevented altogether the nightmare we called Viet Nam and resulted in the governments’ adopting a more humane attitude towards soldiers. 

Back to regiment from safety, to die with loved friends and comrades.

Even though Owen from his youth very much wished to become a poet and was impressed by the writings of Keats and Shelley, his actual writing of poems which made him world famous were written during the fifteen months he spent in trenches in the war front in 1917 and 1918. The war which once shocked him then seemed to thrill him, the reason for which can be attributed to the poetic sentimentality and recklessness to be with his loved friends and comrades in the war front in the days of their misery. Certainly like all poets or cowards, on regaining health and fitness, he could have left war and lived in security and safety after released from the War Hospital. He indeed had joined or formed an intelligent literary circle there in Edinburgh during the days of his recuperation. But instead, he returned to his regiment, to be killed days later, just before the war ended. In fact, his friends and family were eagerly waiting for his return when the news of truce reached them. The news of his death reached his village on November 11, 1918 along with the bells of armistice and peace. What horrifies us is the vain death of a brilliant poet in duty who filled his poems with the futility of war. It was the sacrifice of a poetical fame for fine citizenry. 

Would Owen have lived longer if he was recognized as a published poet and also given the Military Cross?

Burn crops so that enemy won’t eat. Emanuel Leutse

Rejoining duty on fitness, he was delegated to lead a party to storm the enemy positions in a village in Ors. He seized a German machine gun and used it to kill a number of Germans. He was shot on the bank of a canal and killed while trying to cross the canal, only days before the war ended. He always considered him as a remarkable war poet, who he actually was, but only four of his poems had been printed by any publishers in his life time. That too was only because he happened to be the editor of the magazine The Hydra published by the War Hospital at Craig Lock hart, Edinburgh where he recuperated. And this Hydra Magazine had only a very limited circulation among the patients, doctors, nurses and staff of that hospital, a very discouraging situation for any poet. What would have happened had he not been shell shocked and admitted there but died directly in action? Would fate have changed his destiny if he had been given due recognition as a published war poet by printers…? He always sought in secret the Military Cross for his supremacy as the most talented war poet of his times, but it was awarded only after his death, in 1919. What if Military Cross had been awarded earlier while he lived…?

Personally manipulated a captured enemy machine gun and inflicted heavy losses on the enemy.

What the other side feels. Horace Vernet 1814.

The citation to the Military Cross awarded to the poet reads: ‘2nd Lt, Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, 5th Battalion. For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty in the attack on the Fonsomme Line on October 1st/2nd, 1918. On the company commander becoming a casualty, he assumed command and showed fine leadership and resisted a heavy counter-attack. He personally manipulated a captured enemy machine gun from an isolated position and inflicted considerable losses on the enemy. Throughout he behaved most gallantly’. Even after this Military Cross awarded for his gallantry, the world was not willing to acknowledge his poetry. Today, Wilfred Owen is a synonym for war poetry but for having been presented with this much fine war literature to read, we owe our debt to his family. He sent 600 letters to his loved mother who kept them all safe, from which was the war front feelings, emotions and experiences of Owen were discerned later. His sister donated these letters to the University of Oxford where people can still see them. His brother collected his manuscripts and helped bringing out his poems as a book.

Writing boldly about the horrors of war was his catharsis to escape from shell shock trauma.

American marines in Belleau Wood. Georges Scott.

Was Wilfred Owen overly influenced by friends like Siegfried Sassoon and physicians like Arthur Brock is still a thing of debate, which they did more or less. Sassoon himself was an accomplished poet who advised Owen to abandon the old style he followed since when he was ten years old and turn to more seriously writing about the futility of war. We shall dismiss all critics’ allegations of them sharing an attachment more than manly. Arthur Brock treated him when he was admitted in the War Hospital following shell shock trauma and advised him not to try to forget the horrors of war which haunted his mind, but to go straight continuing to boldly write about them which would serve as his catharsis, a fine clinical advice in those times of Sigmund Freud. Anyway, since joining the army and fighting in the front line, we see a dramatic change in the poetic style of Owen. Every soldier who took part in the world war underwent war horrors and trauma which went untold in the chronicles of historians. With Owen putting them into words after actually experiencing them, recorded them in livid humility for future generations to see and evaluate in times to come.

World War started with liberation, and ended with cessation, annexation and colonization.

The dead soldier. Joseph Wright of Derby 1789.

Liberation of Belgium was the objective with which the First World War started but war politics soon turned into the objective of grabbing colonies for future which the civilians did not recognize but poets like Wilfred Owens and philosophers like Bertrand Russell did, and they reacted through their writings to rouse civilian conscience. Theirs was not blind rage against wars but mature protest against abandoning the honoured causes of war and turning to use war to grab colonies. Owen’s poem ‘The Strange Meeting’ even went to creating the extreme human situation of a dead American soldier meeting a dead German soldier whom he had killed and listening to his version of the war, the enemy finally becoming a friend.

The front line picture painted by Wilfred Owen in The Send- Off.

What is left of a war. Juan Manuel Blanes 1879.

Publishers of his times ignored him, perhaps due to their inability to cope with or even go through the great quantity of war poetry poured in each day. He, as an acclaimed poet and as a civil servant dedicated to those soldiers under his care, wanted only for his poems to be read by all and the people to open their eyes to the futility and horrors of war. Who can say this brilliant young man who sacrificed his life for his country would try to limit the circulation of his poems by wishing not to be read here again? We think it only just and fair to include his lines here, without which this appreciation won’t be complete or contained. See the front line picture painted by Wilfred Owen in The Send-Off.

THE SEND- OFF * WILFRED OWEN

Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men’s are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bells
In wild trainloads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.

______________________________
Pictures Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
______________________________

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Appreciation Studies, Armistice In Ww1, Bloom Books Trivandrum, British Poets, English Poems, First World War, Futility Of War, Irony Of War, Killed In Action, Military Cross, Military Poets, Mountain Military Camps, P S Remesh Chandran, Pity Of War, Reintroduced Literature, Sahyadri Books Trivandrum, Soldier Poets, The Send Off, Truce In World War First, War Front Action, War Poems, Wilfred Owen, Years 1917 And 1918

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PSRemeshChandra
Editor of Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum. Author of several books in English and in Malayalam. And also author of ‘Swan, The Intelligent Picture Book’.

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Comments

Sivaramakrishnan A
18th Jan 2013 (#)

My fervent hope and prayers are for war and strife to end. Am I being idealistic? So be it! We have come thus far and we know wars kill and affect the most innocent. The heroes who are decorated for bravery also end up with mental anguish at being part of the insane violence. I believe few start wars and incite their citizens. With the help of technology the majority should unite and not fall into their vicious hands time and time again. Like a World War veteran reminisced – what use a piece of paper of peace in the end for those who are killed and maimed? Thanks for this wonderful post – siva

PSRemeshChandra
30th Jan 2013 (#)

War is an unnecessary expense in which nations waste resources and innumerable units of precious time and man power. To defeat another country, we spend unimaginably huge sums of money. Most often those countries could be bought with only a fraction of this money. Such futile and waste is war because it never improves mankind. Thank you dear Sivaramakrishnan A for your informative and inspiring note.

Md Rezaul Karim
20th Jan 2013 (#)

Wow! what a nice piece of article to read, wonderfully attached paintings and pictures. Thank you Ramesh ji.

PSRemeshChandra
30th Jan 2013 (#)

When I saw these paintings and pictures for the first time, I thought they were waiting for the right literary creation. Wilfred Owen’s Send Off suited them most. I am immensely thankful to those painters and photographers who were moved like Owen by the horrors of war, to create these masterpieces. I hope the painters, photographers and the poet would supplement each other. Thank you dear Md Rezaul Karim for caring to leave a comment.

Madan G Singh
22nd Jan 2013 (#)

A wonderful post. You have put in a lot of effort. Congratulations

PSRemeshChandra
30th Jan 2013 (#)

When I read your articles in Wikinut, I feel the same as you noted here. What can I say when a compliment comes my way from an accomplished writer like you? Thank you dear Madan G Singh.

Sivaramakrishnan A
31st Jan 2013 (#)

Thank you RameshChandra. It is time war and violence are removed from the face of the earth. What use making all the arms for them to fall into “wrong” hands! What use a piece of peace treaty for those killed, maimed and orphaned? Even the survivors and victors carry severe scars mentally. Politicians start the war making use of the innocent people creating hatred. And the less said about religious fanatics of all hues the better – all Gods can defend themselves, thank you! They don’t need our help! Best regards – siva.

Madan G Singh
1st Feb 2013 (#)

Thank you for the nice words, but I feel I am ordinary. But I really appreciate your writing.

GOD HAVE MERCY ON THE FORLORN SOLDIER

By Sgt. Harry Shaw,

U.S. Army RetiredBandera, Texas14 Feb., 2013

It is not the soldiers who dream up war.

This is the craft of kings; and generals;and old men who forget; industry’s barons;clever men of science; the diplomatic corps.

God have mercy on the forlorn soldier!The scars he carries, our sins atoned!The pack he shoulders bites hardest on themwho deflect their shame on hearts casehardened.

Somewhere, the great Marshal’s plan the lossesof the next war. Logistics. Casualties.Yet, never ask the soldier if he could….afford it.  

Dulce et Decorum Est” By Wilfred Owen

The Shaw Centre for The Arts and Literature

Born on The Field of Battle,..The Shaw Centre for The Arts and Literature celebrates the concepts of form, beauty, aesthetics, mood and style as founded in the liberal arts tradition.

The Shaw Centre for The Arts and Literature is named after Harry Shaw, Sgt. U.S Army Retired, 82nd Airborne Division. Wounded in combat during Operation Urgent Fury (Grenada, 1983). Awards include: the Bronze Star with Valor Device, Purple Heart, and Army Commendation Medal.

Shaw graduated 1991 Summa Cum Laude with a BA in History/Politics from the University of the Incarnate Word, San Antonio. Shaw is a lifelong artist and student of all things created, sacred…Life.

The Shaw Centre gratefully acknowledges Irish Artist Clive Hughes for his permission(s) granted use of Dunluce Castle Co. Antrim. Still in virtual space, The Shaw Centre for The Arts and Literature is to have a physical home in the near future.

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The end really shocked me to think that he died in combat. Personally, I do not believe in wars or support them. It truly saddens me to think of how many people have died in all of these wars. Unfortunately, what hurts the most is that it still takes place in our present. Furthermore, what I really enjoyed from the video was that it provided that extra imagery that you would need to comprehend what occurs in a war setting. Additionally, it also makes you understand the whole emphasis of the poem; which is Wilfred Owen encountering the enemy after the battle. It all of a sudden become an awkward meeting in the afterlife with the soldier that killed him.

It is quite interesting, “the whole dilemma”. In the video they both circle each other, almost as if they were still alive and waiting to see who attacks who. However, they seem to understand that they are no longer on the battlefield and they both go their separate ways to finally rest. As Owen said: “Let us sleep now”. It is quite odd to read this poem after acknowledging that Owen passed away and died on the battlefield. Who knows if he predicted that this would have happened? If so, why did he not leave? So many questions and not that many answers…

It’s horrible, lonely, and morbid, but it is oh so romantic. Wilfred Owen’s Anthem for Doomed Youth calls upon the romance in us, the romance which builds a picture of a thousand handsome, rugged young boys who are gunned down without mercy and without any proper rites. It forces us to hear the stuttering of an automatic rifle, the whistle of a shell as it soars across the battlefield and explodes, decapitating one solider and leaving another immobile, sitting with his fallen comrade, thinking about all the recognition he will never get.

Personally, I don’t know if these men deserve the recognition this poem calls for. Why should we pay respects to people who died in battle? They don’t care. It won’t make them any less dead. It won’t ease the pain for their friends and families. To the dead, there is no difference between a Good, Christian Burial and being thrown into a shallow grave with hundreds of other unnamed militants.

No, the tragedy of war has nothing to do with the lack of recognition. Let the families give him the respect he is owed. Everything else is a farce. No one should mourn someone they’ve never known. The real tragedy of war comes from the waste. Who knows what those thousands of dead young men might have accomplished? Who can imagine the impact they could have had? Instead, they were uselessly slain for a cause that was just so much bigger than them.

The cause of war. Every single one has been caused by something far too petty to justify a slaughter. Religion. Assassination. Land. Money. Things that are apparently worth the lives of millions of people who could have changed the world. Maybe the reason everything kind of sucks in the world today is because the person who would have changed things was shot in the head. Maybe the mind which could have found the cure to cancer was bayoneted through the gut.

Violence begets violence, not peace. Open discussion and acceptance of people who have different ideas begets the start of a better world. I don’t know whether my upbringing or my intellect has brought me to this conclusion, but I’m leaning towards Upbringing. Otherwise, people far smarter than I would have started to implement this. Perhaps they have. Perhaps I’m blinded by the things my society wants me to think, stunted by the aggressive onslaught of other people’s ideas.

I honestly don’t know where I’m going with this, or, indeed, how I got here, but I think it’s important for me to think about these things and write down my first thoughts even if they turn out to be completely wrong. If I don’t put it out into the world, I have done nothing. I can stop wars. You can tell me as often as you like that humans are violent and easily angered and war and fighting are  natural parts of life, but it makes me less miserable to believe that’s wrong. And the whole point of living is making yourself less miserable.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.–
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

When we left off, Siegfried Sassoon had just proclaimed to the world that he would no longer fight in the Great War. This was done with the full knowledge of what awaited him: a court-martial, probably followed by imprisonment and (possibly) by death. He felt miserable at some points, buoyant at others, but was determined to see it through. His hope was that by making a scandal of it—martyring himself for the cause—he could change the course of government policy. Having a decorated officer declare the war “evil and unjust” ought to have an effect, right?

Siegfried Sassoon (James Wilby) throws his MC in the Mersey in Regeneration (1997) (US title: Behind the Lines).
Credit: Artificial Eye Film Productions, Norstar Entertainment

The reaction of his friend Robert Graves, who was also convalescing in England at the time, was something along the lines of “WTF, SIEGFRIED. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Oh, to be sure, Graves agreed with the declaration. But he thought publishing those thoughts was a stupid, useless thing to do, and he had a realistic idea of how the War Office would react. He (and others) tried to make Sassoon see the light: the War Office knew that Sassoon wanted to martyr himself; court-martialling him would be giving him exactly the kind of platform he wanted, which was the last thing they wanted. (Indeed, the Army had shown nothing but politeness and restraint in dealing with the situation so far.) Sassoon refused to retract his statement, but was now painfully aware of the worry he was causing his friends; in a fit of anger and frustration, he threw the ribbon of his Military Cross into the River Mersey.

So, desperate to save his friend from himself, Robert Graves took matters into his own hands.

Pulling every string he could, Graves asked for Sassoon to be given a medical board (i.e. examined to see if he was fit for military service). He then had to convince Siegfried to attend it. Taking him for a walk on the beach, he argued his case, saying he knew for a fact that Sassoon would not get a court-martial or the publicity he wanted. The medical board was, he emphasized, the only way to get out of this situation safely and honorably. Sassoon made him swear—literally, hold up an imaginary Bible and swear—that he knew this to be true, and Graves did it. But Graves lied. He didn’t know for sure that they wouldn’t order a court-martial, but he was willing to do whatever was necessary to convince Siegfried to go.

The next day, Graves testified before the board himself, so anxious and upset on Sassoon’s behalf that he burst into tears at several points. He painted his friend as a hero suffering from neurasthenia (i.e. shellshock/PTSD) due to his courageous battlefield acts. Sassoon was then called in and examined. Finally, after much debate, he was told to report to “Rivers” at the Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh. “He is suffering from a nervous breakdown,” the board’s report read, “and we do not consider him responsible for his actions.”

Dr. W.H.R. Rivers

The Soldier’s Declaration was now officially discredited.

Sassoon arrived at Craiglockhart on July 23, 1917 (Graves was supposed to escort him, but missed the train). The hospital specialized in the treatment of officers with war neuroses, and the “Rivers” he’d been sent to was Dr. William Rivers, a well-respected psychologist/psychiatrist. Although Sassoon hated Craiglockhart (“Dottyville”, as he called it) and spent most of his time writing, playing golf, and taking walks, he absolutely adored Rivers, describing him as his “father-confessor”. Everyone loved Rivers, actually—he was an intelligent and exceptionally compassionate person. His “sessions” with Sassoon mostly consisted of long conversations about Siegfried’s experiences/feelings/opinions on the war. In Sassoon’s words:

“Three evenings a week I went along to Rivers’ room to give my anti-war complex an airing. We talked a lot about European politicians and what they were saying….What the politicians said no longer matters as far as these memoirs of mine are concerned, though I would give a lot for a few gramophone records of my talks with Rivers. All that matters is my remembrance of the great  and good man who gave me his friendship and guidance. I can visualize him, sitting at his table in the late summer twilight, with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead and his hands clasped in front of one knee; always communicating his integrity of mind; never revealing that he was weary as he must often have been after long days of exceptionally tiring work on those war neuroses which demanded such an exercise of sympathy and detachment combined.”

Wilfred Owen

There was one other bright side to Dottyville, but it took several weeks to surface. The patients and staff at at Craiglockhart who read the newspapers had seen Sassoon’s declaration. One such patient was a young officer by the name of Wilfred Owen. A writer and poet himself, he became curious about Sassoon’s poetry and, upon ordering himself a copy of Siegfried’s book, The Old Huntsman, was utterly blown away. “Shakespeare reads vapid after these,” he wrote his mother.

Still, it was several weeks before Owen mustered the courage to timidly knock on Sassoon’s door. He found Siegfried perched on his bed and polishing some golf clubs. Stammering with shyness and fanboy awe (as well as due to his neurasthenia), Owen asked if Sassoon would be kind enough to autograph a few copies of The Old Huntsman. Siegfried was happy to oblige and the two of them proceeded to have a half-hour conversation, which ended with Sassoon advising Owen to “Sweat your guts out writing poetry!”.

And so began the friendship of the First World War’s two greatest poets.

The relationship wasn’t a balanced one, at least not at first. Owen was merely an “interesting little chap” to Sassoon after that first encounter, whereas Owen hero-worshipped practically everything about Sassoon (who was, after all, good-looking, 6.5 years older, 7.5 inches taller, a decorated officer, and a published poet). Siegfried also had the advantage of being one of those charismatic people who, although he sometimes gave the impression of aloofness (mostly due to being shy), turned out to be an intelligent, funny, thoughtful, endearingly self-centered person once you got him talking. It was a recurring theme throughout his life: there was something intensely beguiling about his manner, and he seemed to fascinate nearly everyone he met. Owen was certainly no exception.

Nevertheless, they started to meet regularly to talk shop, often with Sassoon reading his latest work to Owen, who thought it “superb beyond anything in his Book”. Sassoon agreed to look at some of Owen’s poetry as well—not terribly impressed at first, but increasingly interested as Owen accepted his critiques and improved. The younger man even gained enough confidence to make suggestions about Sassoon’s work (and was amazed when Sassoon accepted the notes—imagine, your favorite writer taking suggestions from you!). Owen began to experiment with writing about the war, sometimes in Sassoon’s style and sometimes in his own. And one day, he showed Sassoon a sonnet that began,

“What passing bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons…”

Owen’s manuscript for “Anthem for Doomed Youth”, with Sassoon’s edits on it. Note the original title and Sassoon’s suggestion to change it. Click to enlarge. (British Library, Manuscript Collections)

Sassoon was impressed. Really and honestly impressed, and as they worked to edit it, he even suggested that they might try to get it published. While that didn’t end up happening, it did make Sassoon start to take “little Wilfred” more seriously. And over time, Owen’s hero-worship also faded a bit as he found himself able to laugh affectionately at Siegfried’s flaws.

Wilfred Owen was discharged from Craiglockhart in October 1917. The night he left, the two friends dined together at a club, and Sassoon left before Owen did—but not before handing him an envelope and giving him stern instructions not to open it until he’d gone. When Owen opened it, he discovered a £10 note and the address of one of Sassoon’s literary friends/mentors in London, plus a note from Sassoon telling him to go have some fun. Overwhelmed, Owen tried to express his gratitude in a letter, realized he was completely overdoing it, and waited a few days before trying again to explain how much Sassoon’s friendship and mentorship meant to him:

“Know that since mid-September, when you still regarded me as a tiresome little knocker on your door, I held you as Keats + Christ + Elijah + my Colonel + my father-confessor + Amenophis IV in profile. 

What’s that mathematically? 

In effect it is this: that I love you, dispassionately, so much, so very much, dear Fellow, that the blasting little smile you wear on reading this can’t hurt me in the least. 

If you consider what the above Names have severally done for me, you will know what you are doing. And you have fixed my Life – however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me. I spun round you a satellite for a month, but I shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze.”

(Brief biographical interlude: if that reads like a love letter, that’s because it basically is one. Though there’s not a lot of concrete evidence (I’ll explain why shortly), based on the correspondence we have, it certainly seems like Owen was in love with Sassoon. (That can’t come as a total surprise based on what I’ve said so far, right?) Whether they had any kind of romantic/sexual relationship is up for debate depending on who you talk to, but whatever happened between them, it meant more to Owen than it did to Sassoon. That said, Siegfried was certainly very fond of Wilfred, and when…well, I’m getting ahead of myself. Keep reading and I promise we’ll get there.)

The Craiglockhart Hydropathic, as it looks today (now part of Napier University)

Owen might have escaped from Dottyville, but Sassoon had not. In the course of his sessions with Rivers at Craiglockhart, Sassoon had been forced to repeatedly confront one agonizing fact: no matter how much he hated the war, and no matter how much he wanted to stay true to his ideals, his men were still out on the front. Suffering. Dying. And from his safe little room in this safe little building on this safe little island, there was nothing he could do to save them. Reading the casualty lists in the papers was a daily torture. And he gradually realized he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t go back.

“…In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;

And while the dawn begins with slashing rain

I think of the Battalion in the mud.

‘When are you going out to them again?

Are they not still your brothers through our blood?’”

So, he went back.

It took some work and several false starts. Like Robert Graves, Dr. Rivers had to pull some strings to get Sassoon a medical board—and then had to do it all over again when Sassoon missed the first one. And once he’d been declared fit, it took a while for him to actually get back to France—he ended up at a training camp in Ireland first, then deployed in Palestine. But by May of 1918 he was finally finally finally back among the horrors of the trenches and the beauty of the French countryside. The few familiar faces here were far outnumbered by the unfamiliar; death had not been kind to the battalion in Sassoon’s absence, and his remaining friends were glad to have him back. (Robert Graves, also still alive, was in England.)

But on July 13, 1918, while he was returning from no-man’s land after one of his usual daredevil patrols, Sassoon was mistaken for a German by one of his own men and shot in the head.

Yup, in the head.

Ne freak-out pas, as my high school French teacher would say. He didn’t die. He thought he was dying at first, as did the man who’d shot him (horrified once he discovered what he’d done)—but the bullet hadn’t penetrated his skull. Just a lot of bleeding, as scalp wounds do. At the casualty clearing station, Sassoon firmly told the doctors that he did not want or need to be sent home. It wasn’t his decision to make, though; he was shipped back to England.

Wilfred Owen

Nor was recuperating in a London hospital Sassoon’s idea of a good time. He was annoyed at having his social visits restricted, miserable at being cooped up, and distraught over being separated from his men again. His friends worried frankly about his “hankering” after death. But in August, who should reappear but Wilfred Owen, who was now well on his way to being a full-fledged poet. The two spent the space of a single afternoon together shortly before Owen was due to return to France. Owen neglected to mention this fact; Siegfried had once said it would be good for Owen’s poetry if he went back but, at another point, had threatened to stab him in the leg if he did. In part, Owen felt that he had to go back so that at least one of them would be writing from the front lines. But only once he was in France did Owen actually tell Sassoon where he’d gone. The two men corresponded over the next two months, Sassoon sending his newest book, and Owen sending new poems he’d written—poems that made Siegfried finally realize “little Wilfred’s” incredible potential as a poet. And the tide of the war had turned. Germany was losing ground, unable to compete with the Allies’ new American resources. And then…

And then.

On November 4th, 1918, exactly one week before the Armistice, Lt. Wilfred Owen of the Manchester Regiment led his company in an attempt to cross the Sambre-Oise canal at Ors, under heavy fire, and was killed in action. He was 25 years old. The telegram notifying his parents was delivered on November 11th, 1918 as the bells were ringing to celebrate the end of the war.

Sassoon didn’t find out about Owen’s death until several months after the fact. According to one quote I’ve read (though can’t verify), he described it in later years as “an unhealed wound, & the ache of it has been with me ever since.” What we do know is that Sassoon went on to become the greatest advocate and supporter of Owen’s work, personally editing several books of Owen’s poetry. Indeed, it’s largely due to Sassoon that we know as much of Owen as we do. And remember how I said I would explain why we don’t know more? Wilfred Owen had left his mother instructions to burn a sack of letters and personal papers in the event of his death—and to the everlasting chagrin of biographers everywhere, she did as he asked. There are a good many things we shall never know about him as a result (but then again, such is the case with all biography).

Sassoon in 1920

If you want to find out what happened to Sassoon in the years after the war, you’ll have to turn to one of the excellent resources listed below, because here at the end of the war comes the end of my telling of his story. I will say that he went on to write a great deal of poetry, as well as his memoirs (both fictionalized and, later, more honestly autobiographical). His friendship with Robert Graves, rocky after Graves’s efforts to “save” him, deteriorated pretty completely in later years (more on this in my next post). He had several love affairs (most notably with Stephen Tennant). And although he was gay, he went on to marry a woman (Hester Gatty) because he wanted to be a father (and got his wish). And he lived to the ripe old age of 80, dying in 1967.

WHOOOEEEEEE! Mad props if you made it to the end of that thing! Had I known I’d get so wrapped up in telling this, I’d have restructured my blog series, but there wasn’t a good place to break up this chunk of the story, so thanks for sticking around. Keep your eyes peeled for the final blog post (not nearly this long, I promise you) on how I got to “meet” Sassoon, Graves, and others.

And finally—I know I skated over the poetry in these biographical sketches, but PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE do read it. It’s the reason these guys are famous, and it’s incredible stuff (although, obvious-but-fair-warning: it’s about war, and war is not pretty).

Here are a few of my favorites to get you started:

Sassoon

Base Details

Survivors

Repression of War Experience

The Glory of Women

Aftermath

Owen

Anthem for Doomed Youth

Dulce et Decorum Est

S I W (stands for ‘Self Inflicted Wounds’—trigger warning for suicide)

The Parable of the Old Man and the Young

Missed part of the Ari and Siegfried Sassoon series? Here’s the rest:

Part I: Story of a Friend Crush
Part II: Mad Jack, Poet, Soldier, Non-Spy
Part III: you’re here!
Part IV: A Tale of Libraries and Letters

DISCLAIMER: I am not a historian—merely a nerd. I’ve read quite a lot about Sassoon, but I certainly don’t know everything, and this blog series is in no way an authoritative narrative. If you want to learn more from people who actually know what they’re talking about, here are some of the resources you should look at (this is the closest I’ll get to a Works Cited page):

Egremont, Max. Siegfried Sassoon: A Life. New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 2005. Print.

Graves, Robert. Good-Bye to All That. New ed. Garden City, NY: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1957. Print.

Sassoon, Siegfried. The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston. 2nd ed. London: World Books, 1940. Print.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siegfried_Sassoon

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilfred_owen

It’s very humbling to stand there, dwarfed by this mighty window, and by other dedications in the form of sculpture:

Humbling indeed, and it’s good for us to feel humble on occasion, especially me who has far too much to say for herself a lot of the time.

@cathbore

Ah! Let me look a long while in thine eyes, for they are deeper than the depths of thought, and clearer than the ether after rain, and suaver than the moving of the moon, and vaster than the void of all desire.

This poem, Impromptu by Wilfred Owen is amazing and hard hitting.

I am easily seduced with well thought words.

A sketch of the proposed Rosenberg statue by Etienne Millner. From http://www.jeecs.org.uk/rosenberg.html.

Last week there passed across my screen the information that there are plans in progress to commission a statue of the First World War poet Isaac Rosenberg (See HERE).  This follows the announcement in November 2012 that a simple sheet steel ‘statue’ of the renowned War Poet Wilfred Owen is being commissioned in his native Shrewsbury (see HERE).  Close to my home here in Lichfield, May and December 2012 saw the unveiling of two statues of Erasmus Darwin, who lived next door to me (see HERE).  Furthermore, the source of the original passing over my desk of the news about the Rosenberg statue (Tim Kendall’s War Poetry Blog) has since been appended with a comment that a committee in Harrow has been convened to look into the possibility of commissioning a statue and other art works honouring the War Poet and artist, David Jones.

A number of artists are already commemorated with statues.  Cheltenham is adorned with a very fine statue of Holst; and Edward Elgar is honoured by a number of such things, both with and without his bicycle.   There is a statue of Ralph Vaughan Williams in Dorking…

For some time I have wondered whether such an honour could be paid to Ivor Gurney – the composer and War Poet with whose work I have become most closely associated in my research and writing – either in his native city of Gloucester or, more idealistically, on Crickley Hill, where he could be set for eternity at stance looking out over his beloved Severn Plain; over Gloucester and out towards Wales.  Or perhaps a bench should be erected on Chosen Hill, Churchdown, on which Gurney might sit alongside a second statue of Herbert Howells, looking out towards the Malvern Hills, the bench perhaps inscribed with motifs from Howells’s Piano Quartet…

Gloucester could also be treated to a statue of Sir Hubert Parry, one of the founding fathers of British music in the twentieth century, the importance of whose work has been long overshadowed by Elgar.

The £92,000 cited as the figure required to be raised for the Rosenberg sounds both an enormous amount of money and also a relative snip, given that such things would most probably be cast in bronze.  But in this ‘Age of Austerity’ where large businesses are going into administration on an almost daily basis, it might seem frivolous and rather pie-in-the-sky to be embarking upon such ventures.  There would undoubtedly be arguments that public monies should be spent on something far more worthwhile then mere statuary.  And yet what can be more important?  The arts are the facet of humanity that defines us as human, and its importance should never be underestimated.  Adorning our cities with sculptures of some of the heroes of the arts not only adds focal points and things of potential beauty and interest to our streets.  They could encourage some sense of pride in the heritage of that place and might prompt some to investigate anew some of these figures, who could find themselves enriched and inspired by the poetry, music or art that they find.  The need for art is paramount, particularly during times of austerity, when opportunities for retail ‘therapy’ are becoming more difficult.  Looking deeply into a piece of art might just allow you to see more deeply within yourself, discovering parts of your being that you never knew existed.

Wreath laid by students of Blessed William Howard Catholic High School, Stafford, at Gommecourt

In October, I led a BFX four day tour of the WW1 battlefields for the Blessed William Howard School in Stafford. Mostly these were Year 11s but the group included some Year 9s and 10s.

The week before, the Year 11s had finished a GCSE controlled assessment exploring the poetry of Wilfred Owen MC and on our third day we visited the French village of Ors, where Owen spent his last few days alive, wrote his last letter home and was killed a week before the Armistice.

At his grave I recited Strange Meeting. A highlight of my guiding in 2012.

After a Thursday depart from Stafford, the trip truly began on a cold and crisp Friday morning at Gommecourt, where the men of Stafford had fought and died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. It ended on a bright but also crisp Sunday morning at Essex Farm Cemetery where one of the Year 11 boys lost all colour in his face when told he was the same age, 15 years 11 months, as Valentine Strudwick,  the ‘man’ whose grave lay in front of him.

But before Essex Farm we had been to Langemarck German Cemetery. Here, one of the year 11 boys had been moved to tears, the four day tour having touched him to such an extent that he asked to sit with his teacher and just talk to her about his experiences and where he wished to go with his own life.

Following our arrival back in Stafford, a few weeks later, Jane Revell, an adult who had accompanied the trip sent me a poem that she had been moved to write at Langemarck and I attach it below.

Below the poem is a photo of Langemarck German Cemetery taken that morning by Vivian Lines, Year 11.

I thank them both.

A Mother’s pain.

Lying in this cemetery where the sun can barely shine,

Is the optimistic, noble, first-born son of mine.

I saw him don his uniform, proud and brave and strong,

Also somewhat frightened; but I bid him run along.

He once stood valiant, bold and tall,

But now his name upon the wall,

Regrets with neat script so, so small,

That it should take up any space at all.

Dear God, surely his shared gravestone should be made to stand,

Not lie flat, apologetic and skulking on the ground.

I wandered silent around the pit where so many brothers lay

Contemplating just how long we shall all be made to pay.

I was equal to the loss and grief, etched deep though they remain,

But the horror that is left behind is this crushing sense of shame.

Is it really not enough that he lies beneath the earth?

Must we compensate forever for this accident of birth?

Though shattering the dreams of life, what really was his crime?

To be born, a German baby boy – in 1899?

Jane Revell

Reflection on Langemarck Cemetery

Langemarck Cemetery by Vivian Lines, Year 11 at Blessed William Howard Catholic High School, Stafford

So here goes!

My Next Big Thing:

Well, as Susan will tell you, I’ve been working on two projects really. The first is my debut novel – a historical based fiction narrative – which I have  been researching and writing for most of the last five years. As a historian I am used to writing historical books and articles – fact based theories etc- but I also enjoy the portrayal of peoples lives on screen and in books, the hidden people of the past – the hidden stories. There are plenty of facts on social histories but only the rich, famous and the victorious were really ever written about in any great detail, which leaves the multitudes of ordinary people, who experienced sizemic events of the past, out in the darkness as regards modernities view of their existences.  I like to pin major events in the past to the impact they had on ordinary people, even if the people are fictitious in the telling of the story, sometimes the creation of character brings out what’s lost in facts. I find that I now want to tell stories that thread human emotion through our evolution, that’s why fiction can be so very compelling. Joining the Virginia House Creative Writers and Platform 1 Writers in Tallaght a few years ago has helped me in many ways to this, especially having other writer friends to read my work honestly.

My second and currently most prominent project that I am working on is the culmination, (I think I’m getting there), of a poetry collection, which I have been writing for the last three or so years about my experiences and memories as a United Nations Peacekeeper with the Irish Defence Forces in South Lebanon and Kosovo during the conflicts in those countries. I was delighted to have had a number of these poems published in literary magazines such as The Moth & Cyphers and also to have been placed as ‘Joint 2nd Winner’ in the Patrick Kavanagh International Poetry Award 2011 with a collection titled Against The Black Sky, We Listen: An Irish Peacekeepers Poems (also short-listed 2012).

In between, I’ve managed to produce a few short stories, a couple of which have been published, I’ve been selected as a reader in the Eigse Eireann/Poetry Ireland Introductions Series 2012 and won 3rd Prize in the Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Awards 2012 in the poetry section (short-listed  2011).  I was also listed in the recent Inaugural Doire Press International Poetry Competition and the Cork Literary Review Poetry Manuscript Competition , so I think my work is resonating with some people.

What is the working title of your book?

My title, for the novel, I want to keep to myself for now as I think it’s unique and a lot of the process in my thinking and creating is still very much hinged to it and I don’t want too move too fast to soon, just yet…. so sorry about that!

As for the poetry I have sent off some drafts to publishers to see how they react as this is a newish type of poetry subject in Ireland or so I have been told, ‘modern Irish soldiers are not really known for writing about their experiences in poems’ so I hope the poems get a good response.. I may go with the title of the collection that won the Kavanagh prize ‘Against The Black Sky, We Listen: An Irish Peacekeepers Poems,’ they are not strictly war poems (I haven’t been at war though I have been in some warzones during conflicts ) but they are very much about war.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I had no idea when I was serving with the United Nations Peacekeeping Forces that one day I would be writing about it. The idea for the poetry book came from my writing of the poems, something that seems to have been a long time in the creating, fermenting so to speak. I started writing poetry when my mother passed away, she had always told me to write these things down and once I began it seemed to keep coming.   The title comes from a line from one of my poems titled HILL 880, which was prominant Irish UN position in South Lebanon and at times could be a very dangerous and volatile place. The poem itself describes a night of heavy shelling in the Irish Battalion area where the peacekeepers are caught in the middle and coming under hostile fire. (Some poems and stories are available to read on my Blog)

The idea for the book is pinned to historical events and characters but the antagonist and main protagonist are purely fictitious. The main thread of an idea I suppose came after I had written a history book about Ex-British soldiers who had served in the Irish Volunteers, IRA and Irish National Army during the period of the Irish Revolution and Civil War 1913-1924. I was fascinated by the perceptions of loyalty and the divided loyalties of friends and families against the backdrop of the Great War and the Revolution in Ireland. Many Irishmen fought in the British Army during the Great War for the promise of Ireland only to return home to join the Volunteers and fight for Irish Independence from Britain and then in the National Army against the IRA. Their allegiances changed regularly and as events dictated but always they were serving their country though little of this is understood or even remembered now. But one can imagine all the possible threads and narratives that could be conjoured up when examining those situations…well whatever can be imagined believe me it all happened it’s just been forgotten to a great extent. Guilt can be a major factor in the human psyche and the conditioning of individuals and in my story the protagonist is carrying family secrets, a promise  he is destined not to keep and a remorse that slowly destroys him and all set in a very parochial Catholic Ireland.

What genre does your book fall under?

Historical fiction.

Poetry.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

My main characters in the novel are followed from early childhood into adulthood, through family tragedies, wars, political upheaval and perceived disloyalty and the loss of friendships so if there was to be actors involved in a movie rendition I think I would like Michael Fassbender to play the protagonist, …..maybe… but please do get back to me when we are doing the script, he he!

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

For the novel: The Call to Arms leads to the stifling of the promise of love, the breaking of the bonds of friendships and the destruction of a family with demanded loyalties and the burden of a haunting past.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

For the novel…well…I’m still writing the first Draft. I’m still in the defence forces, running a military museum and I have a young family so with this and the poetry and other other projects it’s taken  about five years to get this far but I am getting there. Recently I visited some of the locations, which are portrayed in the book and which are almost as equal in character to the main characters in many ways ie the landscapes of Gallipoli, Flanders and the Somme battlefields so a little re-writing is occurring! To be honest I’m always listening to the characters conversing in my head, the plot-lines etc playing out in regard to my own understanding of history. Now that I have walked the famous ground I understand my story much better. This is my strength, always has been when writing historical pieces so I want to get it right the same way with the fiction.

Same with the poetry collection though I feel I’m nearly there. In a way I’m telling a story with the poems too!

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

For the novel I think ‘Regeneration‘ by Pat Barker would have similarities with the psychological effects of violence on the characters in my story also but other than that I’m hoping that my book will be different in a lot of ways to others especially as I’m telling the story of Irishmen in the wars of the early 20th Century both abroad and at home, which is something not greatly examined. The landscapes of war are in the mind and on the ground too and so…

for the poetry: I have been drawn lately to two collections Here, Bullet & Phantom Noise by poet Brian Turner who writes about his experiences as a US soldier in the recent Iraq Wars. I have also read the Great War poetry of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Francis Ledwidge and although the conflicts that these poets wrote about occurred along time before and after the ones that I was involved in they still resonate with me and helped me to transfer images into words on paper. I hope that my poems will still be able to do that in a hundred years time!

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

For the novel I think being annoyed sometimes at the portrayal of history by the media and film industry or lack of it and then other times my sampling of transcripts and reading them to other writers and friends who showed interest etc as for the poetry: it’s the memories, faces and stories of a part of my life that are only now trying to get out….I think!

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

The novel is based in the rural and city scapes of Dublin, Cork, France, Belgium, Gallipoli and Britain between the 1890s and the 1920s against the backdrop and carnage of the trenches of war and the political emergence of Irish identity and bloody idealism. It’s a whole lot of Strumpet City meets Birdsong meets a more modern version of the Braveheart type nationalism story that collides with The Wind That Shakes The Barley, all the stories I grew up with or I have read that shaped my view of history because of how it was portrayed on the screen or on the page and led me to where I am now. I want to show people the real story of Ireland in this period and maybe they will understand a little better how it came to be what it is now and who we are….maybe!

The poetry collection will be an insight I suppose into the work of Irish soldiers on peacekeeping duty abroad. Many have died on that service and a lot of good work has been done but sometimes it takes years to feel that you have had a positive impact. Mostly I’m rediscovering and talking to that younger version of myself, in a way I’m coming home, in a way some part of me will always stay over there!

When and how will it be published?

Well, first I need to finish the poetry collection because that is having more of an effect on my emotions and my thinking at present, which means that I will complete that and commit myself fully to the novel all within the next couple of months. I would really like to have a poetry collection published this year and a first draft of the novel written by the end of 2013 as there is a lot of state commemorations coming up over the next ten years that all of my books will have relevance to as will the new ones. So by the 100th Anniversary of the beginning of the First World War and Ireland’s commemorations of Irish troops going off to fight, 1914 (2014), I will have my novel published……a promise!

And now it’s time to tag two very busy and quite different writers and creators in their own fields, who I believe are part of Ireland’s great cultural export to the literary and academic worlds – Stephen James Smith and Damien Shiels who will hopefully be telling us about their ‘Next Big Thing’ on Wednesday 16th January, so make sure to keep an eye open and an ear out for them in the future.

Stephen James Smith is a poet, playwright from Dublin. He won the Cúirt International Literary Festival Poetry Grand Slam and his ABSOLUTE Fringe play ‘Three Men Talking About Things They Kinda Know About’ (co-written with Colm Keegan & Kalle Ryan) was shortlisted for the Bewley’s ‘Little Gem Award 2011.’ In 2009 he represented Ireland at the Vilenica Literary Festival Slovenia and in 2010 at Wiersze w Metrze Poland. Stephen is a founder of The Glór Sessions – a weekly event of poetry and music. In April 2011 he was invited by Culture Ireland to recite in the iconicNuyorican Poetry Café New York. ‘Arise and Go!’ his debut album with musician Enda Reilly was selected by Hot Press as one of the best albums of 2011. In 2012 he performed his poetry inFrankfurt, Paris and in London where he was invited by The Irish Olympic House to perform for the Irish Olympians. He work has been translated into six languages and published all over the globe. He is a regular contributor to RTÉ Radio 1’s Arts Show Arena, and has featured on RTÉ’s The Works. He can be found at
http://twitter.com/StephenJSPoet
, on his webpage
http://www.stephenjamessmith.com
 and also on www.facebook.com/TheGlórSessions

Damian Shiels is a professional archaeologist who specialises in ‘conflict archaeology’, particularly where it relates to Ireland. He currently works with a commercial archaeology company, Rubicon Heritage Services Ltd, but has also spent time as one of the curatorial staff at the National Museum of Ireland where he worked with the military collections and in the preparation of the Soldiers and Chiefs military history exhibition and spent much of his career around historical documents interpreting them from an archaeological and museum standpoint.

He has had a long standing interest in the Irish experience of conflict regardless of period or location, and the American Civil War is undoubtedly one of the most fascinating topics in this sphere. The sheer scale of the Irish involvement in the conflict and its affects not only on the soldiers at the front but the Irish civilians at home has captivated his attention. Although the Irish experience of the Civil War is a relatively popular topic in the United States, there remains little understanding in Ireland of either the event itself or how it impacted on the Irish in America or indeed the Irish in Ireland.

Damians blog has been set-up to fulfill a number of aims. He hopes to tell the stories of Irish men and women caught up in the Civil War in an engaging and informative manner, along the way providing information on different people, units and places. It is also intended that resources for those interested in the Irish experience will be built up over time, to act as an aid for those who wish to find out more and to raise awareness in Ireland of the Irish experience of the American Civil War, particularly in light of the 150th anniversary. You can find Damian at irishamericancivilwar.com and on Twitter at @irishacw.

English Heritage says it is to stop its blue plaque scheme because government funding cuts had made it impossible for it to continue. The organisation, due to celebrate 150 years of commemorative plaques in London in 2016, has had its funding cut by 34%. So that means we can blame the Tories then. Who will in turn blame Labour who will in turn blame the bankers who will in turn get away with it. A spokeswoman said it costs an average £965 per plaque. Just under a grand for a blue plaque. Now I must admit I like blue plaques (nerd alert) I always find them informative and there a few in Liverpool. So here for educational purposes are the Merseyside ones.

Perhaps I am guilty of wishful thinking, but at least she has a figure that is humanly possible.

So this post is about the people who have inspired me.  They are listed in no particular order and limited to 10.

2. Courtney Love

Whats not to love?  She is gorgeous, talented and everything I wanted to be when I was a teenager.  Plus she married Kurt Cobain, another hero of mine.  It was as if my two favourite people had got together   If neither of them were going to marry me, I could be consoled with the fact they had each other.

3.  Cleopatra

A strong woman who ruled.  She rocks.  Not afraid to use her sexuality to get what was best for her country and people.  Plus, had to deal with a bunch of loser men (who hasn’t?)

4. Shakespeare

His works are brilliant, they move me.  They reflect what I feel.  Pure genius.  Plus he met the Doctor.

5. Minne the Minx

Feisty, fun and disrespectful   She got away with so much.  Also kinda sexy.  I wanted her to get with Dennis the Menace  in the same way I was pleased Kurt and Courtney got married.

6.  Ada Lovelace

First computer programmer.  Intelligent woman of science (just like me!)

7.  Anne Boleyn

One of the first women I truly adored.  I could imagine her execution, her bravery, knowing her child would not have a mother.  Her story captured my imagination and I avidly read everything I could about the Tudors.  I wanted 6 fingers because of Anne.

8.  Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

Another woman of science who brought to the west the Muslim concept of variolation.

9.   Wilfred Owen

I love World War I poetry, and Wilfred Owen made me cry.  His poetry has also coloured my view of the armed forces for all my life.

10.   ET

Another intelligent being with a huge capacity to love.  Just not human.  First time I considered inter species marriage.

The project was started on Armistice Day, and culminated in the students consolidating their new-found knowledge by writing sonnets about the First World War. Seven brave students read their work aloud, as seen in the video below. The images their words formulate are haunting and beautiful in many cases.

Related articles

• War Poets Remembered (malladuncan.wordpress.com)
• Remembrance Day: Sean Bean reads Wilfred Owen’s Anthem for Doomed Youth (telegraph.co.uk)