Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MAKTOOB, by ALAN SEEGER Poet's Biography First Line: A shell surprised our post one day Last Line: And wisdom of the east. Subject(s): Soldiers' Writings; World War I; First World War | ||||||||
A shell surprised our post one day And killed a comrade at my side. My heart was sick to see the way He suffered as he died. I dug about the place he fell, And found, no bigger than my thumb, A fragment of the splintered shell In warm aluminum. I melted it, and made a mould, And poured it in the opening, And worked it, when the cast was cold, Into a shapely ring. And when my ring was smooth and bright, Holding it on a rounded stick, For seal, I bade a Turco write 'Maktoob' in Arabic. 'Maktoob!' "'Tis written!" . . . So they think, These children of the desert, who From its immense expanses drink Some of its grandeur too. Within the book of Destiny, Whose leaves are time, whose cover, space, The day when you shall cease to be, The hour, the mode, the place, Are marked, they say; and you shall not By taking thought or using wit Alter that certain fate one jot, Postpone or conjure it. Learn to drive fear, then, from your heart. If you must perish, know, O man, 'Tis an inevitable part Of the predestined plan. And, seeing that through the ebon door Once only you may pass, and meet Of those that have gone through before The mighty, the elite ---- Guard that not bowed nor blanched with fear You enter, but serene, erect, As you would wish most to appear To those you most respect. So die as though your funeral Ushered you through the doors that led Into a stately banquet hall Where heroes banqueted; And it shall all depend therein Whether you come as slave or lord, If they acclaim you as their kin Or spurn you from their board. So, when the order comes: "Attack!" And the assaulting wave deploys, And the heart trembles to look back On life and all its joys; Or in a ditch that they seem near To find, and round your shallow trough Drop the big shells that you can hear Coming a half mile off; When, not to hear, some try to talk, And some to clean their guns, or sing, And some dig deeper in the chalk -- I look upon my ring: And nerves relax that were most tense, And Death comes whistling down unheard, As I consider all the sense Held in that mystic word. And it brings, quieting like balm My heart whose flutterings have ceased, The resignation and the calm And wisdom of the East. | 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 CHAMPAGNE, 1914-1915 by ALAN SEEGER ODE IN MEMORY OF THE AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS FALLEN FOR FRANCE by ALAN SEEGER |
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