Consciousness, Literature and the Arts
Archive
Volume 7 Number 3, December 2006
___________________________________________________________________
BULLETS
& MUD
a
stage poem inspired by Wilfred Owen
by
(November
4, 1918. Morning. The west bank of the Oise-Sambre Canal, just north of Ors.
Mud.
Owen is caught in a sudden flash. Time slows down and he’s alone as the
bullet meant for him hovers in the air. He
knows).
OWEN:
An
anthem
Minute bells, passing bells
Solemn, no, monstrous anger
An
anthem for dead youth
Dying youth
The
priest-words, no, requiem
What
candles may we hold? – Behold –
In
women’s wide-spread arms
And
the pallor of girls’ cheeks, no,
Brows;
not in the hands of boys
Nor
in their doomed youth
The
tenderness of mortal minds,
Silent,
patient minds
---
(He
points to the bullet).
There’s
Death waiting to shave me
With his scythe
I
told my brother
I
know I shall be killed
But
this is the only place
That
I can make my protest from
I
came to help these boys
By
leading them as well
As
an officer can
By
watching their sufferings
That
I may speak as well
As
a pleader can
After
all the shells we’ve been through
And
the gas
These
bullets are a gentle rain
From
heaven
Or,
they are arrowheads of political error
And
insincerity on which young men
Are
being sacrificed
---
Death’s
not my enemy
Though
I can’t stand
The
green thick odour of his breath
My
enemies are those who talk
Of
“attrition” and “sustaining damage”
Those
whose imaginations have shrunk
To
the size of a flag, those who still believe
A
corpse missing half a face
Has
any use of nationality
I
have been urged by an earnest viola
To
lay my chest to the ground
And
submit to the pounding shells
The
newest rhythm in the earth
---
I
was reborn through Keats
And
reared again by sweet Sassoon
But
why poetry, I could not say
Except
that it gives me a strange solitude
When
I resort to it and stranger
Friends
when I resort to them
And
even if I don’t know why poetry
Or
what I really want I do know
What
I don’t want:
Preserve
me from old women
Without
wit or wisdom
Preserve
me from young women
With
gush and no beauty
Preserve
me from women
Of
beauty and no charm; but take
No
measures against women of charm
And
no beauty, for they are the sugar
Of
the earth
Preserve
me from men in waistcoats
Shirt
cuffs and braces of a Sunday afternoon
Preserve
me from the man who sits
In
stocking feet of an evening
And
scratches his big toe with his heel
Preserve
me from the youth
Who
carries a pencil in his right ear;
But
preserve the cigarette in the ear of a Tommy
For
it is his last
Preserve
me from people who eat eggs
When
I don’t want any
Preserve
me from all ships
In
glass bottles, plush chairs
Group
photographs, flowers under glass
Shades
and shells-pictures-frames
And
especially preserve me
From
armchair generals and politicians
Who
prolong suffering for their own ends
---
Saith
Mistress Browning:
Many fervent souls
Strike
rhyme on rhyme, who would strike steel on steel
If
steel had offered, in a restless heat
Of
doing something. Many tender hearts
Have
strung their losses on a rhyming thread,
As
children, cowslips. The more pains they take,
The
work more withers. Young men, ay and maids,
Too
often sow their wild oats in tame verse,
Before
they sit down under their own vine
And
live for use
Or
words to that effect. And the effect
On
me is wounding, more deeply, perhaps
Than
that bullet will.
I
determined to raise pigs after the war
I’d
take a cottage in Kent, Surrey, Sussex
And
give my afternoons to pigs
The
abruptest possible change from a morning
Of
poetry
Two
boys could tend them while I wrote
And
being of use and wild verse
Would
be all in a day’s work
Somehow
I must feel of use
Have
a mission in life, something to do
Rooted
in the world, the earth
Something
real, realer than art
Though
it annoys me no end
That
pigs always have priority
Over
poetry
---
My
nerves are charred
Can
you photograph the crimson-hot iron
As
it cools from smelting?
That’s
what Jones’ blood looked like
And
felt like when he lay on top of me
Shot
through the head
Soaking
my shoulder
So,
so what’s poetry – to me?
A
private thrill? What was it to Jones?
Perhaps
something about Jones
Could
only come true through poetry?
Perhaps
there’s something in everything – bullets and skulls and waterlogged corpses
– that can only be seen in poetry;
Something
in poetry that lifts the mud out of mud, making mud a document
Of
terror?
---
Life’s
not a theory
Has
no theory
Neither
does a life
My
life has meaning
My
meaning
Mine
to struggle with
Like
Jacob with the angel
When
the bullet hits
My
life will have a meaning
Beyond
my ken
And
likely different from my struggle
The
meaning of my life will become
Something
it is not
Yet,
once I’m dead
Until
then my meaning
Must
become my heart
My
breathing, my rhythm
And
no moment is
More
august than another
In
this respect if I am
To
live a poet’s life
Not
publication, but being
Present
is my calling
Present
unto death
---
The
thrilling part of this job
Is
going over the top of a trench
Exhilarating
as dreams of falling
Over
a precipice, when you see
The
rocks at the bottom surging up
Towards
you. The exultation
Of
slowly walking forward
Showing
ourselves openly
Keep
the line straight!
Not
so fast on the left!
Not
so fast!
Then
the tornado of shells
Waves
all broken up
And
we carry on like a crowd
Moving
off a cricket field
The
ground wormy with wounded bodies
I
feel no horror only exultation
At
having got through
The
thing about such moments
And
a moment like this
Is
that it defies anything
You
thought you knew
There
is no knowledge
To
rest on; you’re alone with ignorance
Your
ignorance, unless you’re in the grip
Of
fear and clutch to scripture
Only
to grow even more fearful
Because
nothing makes sense
Sense
and the senses break down
Here,
the world narrows
To
your breath and the rush
Of
blood through veins, a movement
That
could stop with the next image
A
booted foot, heel first, plunging into mud
Then
darkness; no one else can own
That
moment for you
After
a few weeks of writing
“Deceased”
across letters from home
Your
CO no longer takes his cigarette
From
his mouth and his pen moves swiftly
---
(He
picks up a skull).
Alas,
etcetera (he smiles)
We
all become fertilizers for the future
We
forget that we’re of the earth
Yet
there’s a peculiar joy in remembering
To
re-member ourselves with the earth
And
its wonders. There are no
Hypocrisies
in nature, only consequences
And
though we spend our lives trying
To
crawl out of nature’s grip we cannot
We
get hauled back generation after generation
But
this is not sad; it is joyous
To
make room. It is joyous to kiss
This
brief moment and to mirror
Our
lives in the skulls of the past
So
we may recall our future
Death
is the great equalizer
And
our gate to joy in life
But
why now?! Why him then?!
Both
of us young, barely begun
Our
main contributions so far
Have
been our deaths
And
a small batch of poems
Is
that all the earth wants from me?!
And
him
(He
tosses the skull).
And
still, along with disappointment
There’s
this enormous calm
Here
the zigzag pattern of choice
Will
end. Of all possible moments
This
is the last, uncertainty
Is
gone, this is the solidest of all times – no flux
A
rest is settling in my body
My
center of gravity is lowering
---
And
up above an unkindness of ravens
Is
celebrating flight because
That
what they’re meant to do
The
glide beyond the barrage
In
another world where things
Are
enough in themselves
Preserve
this!
And
preserve the hiding hawks, also
For
they know the business of their lives
Layers
must be shed
To
uncover a naked path
Tearing
at the corners of garment
Consumes
generations, yet the veins
Of
life shift with every breath
Frustration
guards the gates
Veils
cloak it and all trails
Are
ablaze with thirst
And
it is good.
(He
is hit. Darkness).
THE
END