wwi poetry by: jeemin han, sangwoo song, staci shon
TRANSCRIPT
WWI POETRYBy: Jeemin Han, Sangwoo Song, Staci Shon
Poetry Characteristics
Before WWI: Based on imaginations Made to entertain readers Exotic endings
Poetry Characteristics
Immediate experiences in poetry (what they have render and whitnessed)
Poets inherit poetic voices Soldiers wrote it for enjoyment and re-
veal their emotions had no tradition to draw upon (as back-
ground sources) poorly equipped (short with resources
during war)
Giuseppe Ungaretti
Greatest Italian poet in 20th century served an infantryman with the 3rd Army
from 1915-1918 he was transferred to the Western Front
where Italian forces fought with distinc-tion
pure style was achieved by condensation to essentials and is in the tradition of the French Symbolists
Vigil by. Giuseppe Ungaretti
A whole night long
crouched close
to one of our men
butchered
with his clenched
mouth
grinning at the full moon
with the congestion
of his hands
thrust right
into my silence
I've written
letters filled with love
I have never been
so
coupled to life
Georg Traki
Trakl was sent as a medical official Trakl suffered frequent depression by the
horror he tried to shoot himself from the strain After hospitalized and placed under close
observation Trakl lapsed into deeper depression Trakl had committed suicide from an
overdose of cocaine.
Klage
Dreamless sleep - the dusky Eaglesnightlong rush about my head,man's golden image drowned
in timeless icy tides. On jagged reefshis purpling body. Dark
echoes sound above the seas.
Stormy sadness' sister, seeour lonely skiff sunk down
by starry skies:the silent face of night.
Isaac Rosenberg
young poet filled with hopes to make his living as a portrait artist and had moved to South Africa
He returned to England in 1915, enlisted in 1916 and was killed at the front on April 3, 1918.
Dead Man's Dump
The plunging limbers over the shattered track
Racketed with their rusty freight,
Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
To stay the flood of brutish men
Upon our brothers dear.
The wheels lurched over sprawled dead
But pained them not, though their bones crunched,
Their shut mouths made no moan.
They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,
Man born of man, and born of woman,
And shells go crying over them
From night till night and now.
Earth has waited for them,
All the time of their growth
Fretting for their decay:
Now she has them at last!
In the strength of their strength
Suspended--stopped and held.
Dead Man's DumpWhat fierce imaginings their dark souls lit?
Earth! have they gone into you!
Somewhere they must have gone,
And flung on your hard back
Is their soul's sack
Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.
Who hurled them out? Who hurled?
None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass,
Or stood aside for the half used life to pass
Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,
When the swift iron burning bee
Drained the wild honey of their youth.
What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre,
Walk, our usual thoughts untouched,
Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,
Immortal seeming ever?
Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,
A fear may choke in our veins
And the startled blood may stop.
Dead Man's DumpThe air is loud with death,
The dark air spurts with fire,
The explosions ceaseless are.
Timelessly now, some minutes past,
Those dead strode time with vigorous life,
Till the shrapnel called `An end!'
But not to all. In bleeding pangs
Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,
Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.
Maniac Earth! howling and flying, your bowel
Seared by the jagged fire, the iron love,
The impetuous storm of savage love.
Dark Earth! dark Heavens! swinging in chemic smoke,
What dead are born when you kiss each soundless soul
With lightning and thunder from your mined heart,
Which man's self dug, and his blind fingers loosed?
Dead Man's Dump
A man's brains splattered on
A stretcher-bearer's face;
His shook shoulders slipped their load,
But when they bent to look again
The drowning soul was sunk too deep
For human tenderness.
They left this dead with the older dead,
Stretched at the cross roads.
Burnt black by strange decay
Their sinister faces lie,
The lid over each eye,
The grass and coloured clay
More motion have than they,
Joined to the great sunk silences.
Dead Man's Dump
Here is one not long dead;
His dark hearing caught our far wheels,
And the choked soul stretched weak hands
To reach the living word the far wheels said,
The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,
Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels
Swift for the end to break
Or the wheels to break,
Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight.
Will they come? Will they ever come?
Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,
The quivering-bellied mules,
And the rushing wheels all mixed
With his tortured upturned sight.
So we crashed round the bend,
We heard his weak scream,
We heard his very last sound,
And our wheels grazed his dead face.
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen
Well-known french poet "My subject is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity" “The Show” published on January 16th,
1917 Before the war, known for optimistic and
cheerful personality After war, became gloomy and dark, his
poem turned depressing and grotesque Can be seen in “The Show”
The Show
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,As unremembering how I rose or why,And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,There moved thin caterpillars, slowly un-coiled.It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugsOf ditches, where they writhed and shriv-elled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scrapedRound myriad warts that might be little hills.
From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,And vanished out of dawn down hid-den holes.
(And smell came up from those foul openingsAs out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
On dithering feet upga thered, more and more,Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.
Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns,Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten,I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flat-ten.
Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean,I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hidIts bruises in the earth, but crawled no fur-ther,Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
Unkown German poet
Thought to be written by a sapper (engi-neer combat soldier)
Nationalistic feeling Hatred towards France Emphasize how strong German is
Arogonne Forest at Midnight
Argonne Forest, at midnight, A sapper atands on guard. A star shines high up in the sky, bringing greetings from a distant homeland. And with a spade in his hand, He waits forward in the sap-trench. He thinks with longing on his love, Wondering if he will ever see her again.
The artillery roars like thunder, While we wait in front of the infantry, With shells crashing all around. The Frenchies want to take our position.
Should the enemy threaten us even more, We Germans fear him no more. And should he be so strong, He will not take our position.
The storm breaks! The mortar crashes! The sapper begins his advance. Forward to the enemy trenches, There he pulls the pin on a grenade.
The infantry stand in wait, Until the hand grenade explodes. Then forward with the assault against the enemy,
And with a shout, break into their position.
Argonne Forest, Argonne Forest, Soon thou willt be a quiet cemetary. In thy cool earth rests much gallant soldiers' blood.
Nikolay Stepanovich Gumi-lyov Influential Russian poet two St. George Crosses Married to Anna Akhamatova
A noble poet as well Contributed to Russian economic durin WWI The Quiver (1916). Isolation, and grotesque
The Lost Tram
I walked an unfamiliar street
And suddenly heard a raven's cry,
And the sound of a lute, and distant thunder,-
In front of me a tram was flying.
How I jumped onto its foot board,
Was a mystery to me,
Even in daylight it left behind
A fiery trail in the air.
It rushed like a dark, winged storm,
And was lost in the abyss of time...
Tram-driver, stop,
Stop the tram now.
Too late. We had already turned the corner,
We tore through a forest of palms,
Over the Neva, the Nile, the Seine
We thundered across three bridges.
And slipping by the window frame,
A poor old man threw us an inquisitive glance-
The very same old man, of course,
Who had died in Beirut a year ago.
Where am I? So languid and troubled
The beat of my heart responds:
"Do you see the station where you can buy
A ticket to the India of the soul?”
A sign...Blood-filled letters
Announce: "Zelennaya,"-I know that here
Instead of cabbages and rutabagas
The heads of the dead are for sale.
In a red shirt, with a face like an udder,
The executioner cuts my head off, too,
It lies together with the others
Here, in a slippery box, at the very bottom.
And in a side street a board fence,
A house three windows wide, a gray lawn...
Tram-driver, stop,
Stop the tram now.
Mashenka, you lived here and sang,
You wove me, your betrothed, a carpet,
Where are your voice and body now,
Is it possible that you are dead?
How you groaned in your front chamber,
While I, in a powdered wig,
Went to introduce myself to the Empress
Never to see you again.
Now I understand: our freedom
Is only an indirect light from those times,
People and shadows stand at the entrance
To a zoological park of planets.
And a sudden, familiar, sweet wind blows,
A horseman's hand in an iron glove
And two hooves of his horse
Fly at me over the bridge.
Come Over (WW1 song)
Over thereOver there
Send the world Send the world
Over there
Come Over
That the yanksare comingThe yanksare comingThe drumsDrumming Everywhere
Come Over
So prepareSay a prayer
Send the wordSend the word
To beware
Come Over
We’ll be overWe’re coming over
And we won’t come backTill it’s overOver there
So prepare say a prayerSend the wordSend the word
To beware
Come Over
We’ll be over wereComing over
And we won’t comebackTill it’s over,Over there