The Oxford Book of War Poetry. - book reviews

Jon Stallworthy, Editor. 1984; 358 pp. ISBN 0-19-214125-2 $30 ($32.50 postpaid). Oxford University Press, Order Dept, 2001 Evans Road, Cary, NC 27513; 800/451-7556

Singing the praises of courageous soldiers and brave widows, or decrying the sacrifice, poets have for ages expressed the intense emotions of war. Can on oct be both benevolent and cruel? Who deserves honor? How should we remember them? This collection reveals the power wielded by the poet in creatingimages that interpret meaning, determine value, and call to action. For one who has lived a life of relative peace, The Oxford Book of War Poetry is a good lesson in deciphering the complexities of conflict.

* Richard Lovelace (1618-1658)

To Lucasta, Going to the Wars

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such

As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honour more.

* John Donne (1572-1631)

A Burnt Ship

Out of a fired ship, which, by no way But drowning, could be rescued from the flame, Some men leaped forth, and ever as they came Near the foe's ships, did by their shot decay; So all were lost, which in the ship were found,

They in the sea being burnt, they in the bur ship drowned

* Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)

On Receiving News of the War

Snow is a strange white word; No ice or frost Have asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know, No man knows why.

In all men's hearts it is. Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face. God's blood is shed. He mourns from His lone place His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume. Give back this universe Its pristine bloom.

Cape Town, 1914

* Margaret Atwood (1939-)

It is Dangerous to Read Newspapers

While I was building neat castles in the sandbox, the hasty pits were, filling with bulldozed corpses

and as I walked to the school washed and combed, my feet stepping on the cracks in the cement detonated red bombs.

Now I am grownup and literate, and I sit in my chair as quietly as a fuse

and the jungles are flaming, the underbrush is charged with soldiers, the names on the difficult maps go up in smoke.

I am the cause, I am a stockpile of chemical toys, my body is a deadly gadget, I reach out in love, my hands are guns, my good intentions are completely lethal.

Even my passive eyes transmute everything I look at to the pocked black and white of a war photo, how can I stop myself

It is dangerous to read newspapers.

Each time I hit a key on my electric typewriter, speaking of peaceful trees another village explodes.

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