Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ANOTHER JOURNEY FROM BETHUNE TO CUINCHY, by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I see you walking Last Line: My time for trench round. Alternate Author Name(s): Blunden, Edmund Subject(s): World War I; First World War | ||||||||
I SEE you walking To a pale petalled sky, And the green silent water Is resting there by; It seems like bold madness But that "you" is I. I long to interpret That voice of a bell So silver and simple, Like a wood-dove-egg shell, On the bank where you are walking -- It was I heard it well. At the lock the sky bubbles Are dancing and dying, Some the smallest of pearls, Some moons, and all flying, Returning, and melting -- You watched them, half-crying. This is Marie-Louise, You need not have told me -- I remember her eyes And the Cognac she sold me -- It is you that are sipping it; Even so she cajoled me. Her roof and her windows Were nothing too sound, And here and there holes Some forty feet round (Antiquer than Homer) Encipher the ground. Do you jib at my tenses? Who's who? you or I? Do you own Bethune And that grave eastward sky? Bethune is miles off now, 'Ware wire and don't die. The telegraph posts Have revolted at last, And old Perpendicular Leans to the blast, The rigging hangs ragging From each plunging mast. What else would you fancy, For here it is war? My thanks, young upstart, I've been here before -- I know this Division, And hate this damned Corps. "Kingsclere" hath its flowers, And piano to boot; The coolest of cellars, -- Your finest salute! You fraudulent wretch -- You appalling recruit! O haste, for the darnel Hangs over the trench, As yellow as the powder Which kills with a stench! Shall you go or I go? O I'll go -- don't mench! But both of us slither Between the mossed banks, And through thirsty chalk Where the red-hatted cranks Have fixed a portcullis With notice-board -- thanks! A mad world, my masters! Whose masters? my lad, If you are not I, It is I who am mad; Let's report to the company, Your mess, egad. Well, now sir (though lime juice Is nothing to aid), This young fellow met me, And kindly essayed To guide me -- but now it seems I am betrayed. He says he is I, And that I am not he; But the same omened sky Led us both, we agree, -- If we cannot commingle, Pray take him and me. For where the numb listener Lies in the dagged weed, I'll see your word law, And this youth has agreed To let me use his name -- Take the will for the deed. And what if the whistle Of the far-away train Come moan-like through mist Over Coldstream Lane, Come mocking old love Into waking again? And the thinkings of life, Whether those of thy blood, Or the manifold soul Of field and of flood -- What if they come to you Bombed in the mud? Well, now as afore I should wince so, no doubt, And still to my star I should cling, all about, And muddy one midnight We all will march out. -- Sir, this man may talk, But he surely omits That a crump any moment May blow us to bits; On this rock his identity- Argument splits. I see him walking In a golden-green ground, Where pinafored babies And skylarks abound, But that's his own business. My time for trench round. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...D'ANNUNZIO by ERNEST HEMINGWAY 1915: THE TRENCHES by CONRAD AIKEN TO OUR PRESIDENT by KATHARINE LEE BATES THE HORSES by KATHARINE LEE BATES CHILDREN OF THE WAR by KATHARINE LEE BATES THE U-BOAT CREWS by KATHARINE LEE BATES THE RED CROSS NURSE by KATHARINE LEE BATES WAR PROFITS by KATHARINE LEE BATES THE UNCHANGEABLE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ALMSWOMEN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |
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