A letter from Wilfred Owen to Siegfried Sassoon
From Rictor Norton's anthology of gay historical letters "My Dear Boy".
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A poem by R. L. Barth
A Letter to the Dead
The outpost trench is deep with mud tonight.
Cold with the mountain winds and two weeks' rain,
I watch the concertina. The starlight
Scope hums, and rats assault the bunkers again.
You watch with me: Owen, Blunden, Sassoon.
Through sentry duty, everything you meant
Thickens to fear of nights without a moon.
War's war. We are, my friends, no different.
R. L. Barth
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by Siegfried Sassoon
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Siegfried Sassoon: Sketch (2) 2023
One of my favorite War Poets, Siegfried Sassoon at first an enthusiastic soldier, soon became disillusioned with the horror and futility of the fighting on the Western Front. His younger brother Hamo died in 1915 at Gallipoli and this loss no doubt profoundly contributed to his change of heart. Here is my portrait of Siegfried Sassoon and his poem: Glory of Women, written in 1917. It is a…
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Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!
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“I am but the brain that dreamed and died.”
Siegfried Sassoon, The Humbled Heart
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Craiglockhart
Brian Johnstone
Maybe they’re here somewhere, lost
in these crowds of students, informal
in their tweeds, plus fours –
Sassoon, the elder, Sunday golfer;
Owen, bookish, gangly, pale – mingling
with the queue for the refectory,
snatching nervously at fags, ignoring
notices forbidding all those here
to smoke. You catch a glimpse
you think, later, in the distance
– backs straight, military haircuts –
turning down a corridor you glance along
but they’re not there. No, no-one is, though
low light slants through window frames,
plants these crosses on the wall.
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I am started. The tugs have left me; I feel the great swelling of the open sea taking my galleon.
Wilfred Owen
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More about Owen in my previous post.
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"On 7th of January Ukrainian poet Maksym Kryvtsov and his ginger cat were killed by rssian army on the frontline. He was 33 years old. He was writing poems about the war and his loyal cat friend, while protecting his homeland. He could create so much if russia would not start this unjust horror.
Every time something inside me dies when I see news like this. Every Ukrainian from the beginning of their time in school learns about Executed Renaissance - when on the beginning of 20th century a lot of Ukrainian artists, writers, poets were chased and executed by Soviet Union for creating works in Ukrainian and expressing their national identity. Now it’s happening again, same evil, but under different flag. Besides occupation of our land russia also often talks about how Ukraine is fake country with fake language, they burn our books on occupied territories, mock us, our POWs for the fact we’re ukrainian. They were mocking us even before the invasion, I grew up with watching it on social medias myself. And now a lot of authors can’t create because of the war, russia kills them on frontlines, in their homes, russia purposefully targets objects of civilian infrastructure to leave us without heat and electricity. It pisses me off every time when I see russian “culture” being praised by the foreigners, knowing that it’s made on blood of other nations. Either 100 years ago or now. Because while russian authors can live and create, we have fight for our survival.
Before being killed by russia Maksym published his last poem, where he told about how his body will grow as violets after his death. Every time it’s hard to draw something about the war, I feel literally empty afterwards but I just felt it would be right thing to do. It’s awful that our artists have to go through all of this, so damn unfair, and I keep telling myself that justice is waiting for them but I can’t even imagine what has to happen, everything feels not enough.
Please support Ukrainian authors, until it’s too late."
(c) @ fate_221
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I love the theory that Patroclus was a homeric invention regardless of whether is true or not.
Mostly because I imagine Homer saying:
"This is my OC Patroclus. He's an exiled prince and everyone loves him. He's so strong he killed a son of Zeus and also has 9 dogs. He's Achilles' boyfriend and best friend too btw uwu"
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Edmund Blunden Sketch (1) 2023
After a lengthy pause, I am returning to the project of sketching portraits of the War Poets of The Great War. It’s been 3 years (!) since I did my sketch of Robert Graves, but I’m back with a portrait of Edmund Blunden, whom I featured on the blog once before. This time I’m including one of his other poems but please do follow the link to the previous Blunden post to read Thiepval Wood and the…
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"In my heart, there is a map of Palestine, and on it, every village has a story, every olive tree has a name."
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“My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest”
Wilfred Owen, A Terre (1918)
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Poet & King
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