Poems by Edmund Blunden

by · Published · Updated

Festubert, 1916*

Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day,
I sit in solitude and only hear
Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay,
The lost intensities of hope and fear;
In those old marshes yet the rifles lie,
On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags,
The very books I read are there—and I
Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags
Its wounded length from those sad streets of war
Into green places here, that were my own;
But now what once was mine is mine no more,
I seek such neighbours here and I find none.
With such strong gentleness and tireless will
Those ruined houses seared themselves in me,
Passionate I look for their dumb story still,
And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.
I rise up at the singing of a bird
And scarcely knowing slink along the lane,
I dare not give a soul a look or word
For all have homes and none's at home in vain:
Deep red the rose burned in the grim redoubt,
The self-sown wheat around was like a flood,
In the hot path the lizards lolled time out,
The saints in broken shrines were bright as blood.
Sweet Mary's shrine between the sycamores!
There we would go, my friend of friends and I,
And snatch long moments from the grudging wars;
Whose dark made light intense to see them by ...
Shrewd bit the morning fog, the whining shots
Spun from the wrangling wire; then in warm swoon
The sun hushed all but the cool orchard plots,
We crept in the tall grass and slept till noon.
Festhubert was the scene of an important part of the Second Battle of Auber.
Midnight Skaters

The hop-poles stand in cones,
The icy pond lurks under,
The pole-tops steeple to the thrones
Of stars, sound gulfs of wonder;
But not the tallest thee, 'tis said,
Could fathom to this pond's black bed.
Then is not death at watch
Within those secret waters?
What wants he but to catch
Earth's heedless sons and daughters?
With but a crystal parapet
Between, he has his engines set.

Then on, blood shouts, on, on,
Twirl, wheel and whip above him,
Dance on this ball-floor thin and wan,
Use him as though you love him;
Court him, elude him, reel and pass,
And let him hate you through the glass.

My Forefathers

Here they went with smock and crook,
Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade,
Here they mudded out the brook
And here their hatchet cleared the glade:
Harvest-supper woke their wit,
Huntsmen's moon their wooings lit.

From this church they led their brides,
From this church themselves were led
Shoulder-high; on these waysides
Sat to take their beer and bread.
Names are gone - what men they were
These their cottages declare.

Names are vanished, save the few
In the old brown Bible scrawled;
These were men of pith and thew,
Whom the city never called;
Scarce could read or hold a quill,
Built the barn, the forge, the mill.

On the green they watched their sons
Playing till too dark to see,
As their fathers watched them once,
As my father once watched me;
While the bat and beetle flew
On the warm air webbed with dew.

Unrecorded, unrenowned,
Men from whom my ways begin,
Here I know you by your ground
But I know you not within -
There is silence, there survives
Not a moment of your lives.

Like the bee that now is blown
Honey-heavy on my hand,
From his toppling tansy-throne
In the green tempestuous land -
I'm in clover now, nor know
Who made honey long ago.

Avatar photo

Thomas Fleming

Thomas Fleming is president of the Fleming Foundation. He is the author of six books, including The Morality of Everyday Life and The Politics of Human Nature, as well as many articles and columns for newspapers, magazines,and learned journals. He holds a Ph.D. in Classics from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill and a B.A. in Greek from the College of Charleston. He served as editor of Chronicles: a Magazine of American Culture from 1984 to 2015 and president of The Rockford Institute from 1997-2014. In a previous life he taught classics at several colleges and served as a school headmaster in South Carolina

7 Responses

  1. Michael Strenk says:
    June 15, 2021 at 3:26 pm

    Beautiful.

  2. Robert Reavis says:
    June 15, 2021 at 10:29 pm

    Edmund Blunden is or should be an example to all of us of how much was lost from the World Wars. So much of an entire generation that could read, write and converse about this type of poetry were killed, wounded or devastated. It was such a tremendous loss there is a good chance we may never recover from it. We certainly have not recovered anything like it in the broad field of poetry and he was not alone or even a rarity in doing what poets do for his generation. 40 million casualties from the War with 20 million killed, many of those in the full vigor of life never to sing their story or to pass on what they were given to children, and never to be heard from again. It was simply an incalculable loss of life and tremendous iniquity. We are still enduring its worst effects.

  3. Allen Wilson says:
    June 16, 2021 at 6:01 pm

    Very true, Mr Reavis, and well said.

  4. Patrick Kinnell says:
    June 19, 2021 at 6:09 am

    My Forefathers is particularly beautiful. I love the two lines: Scarce could read or hold a quill/Built the barn, the forge, the mill.

  5. Robert Reavis says:
    June 19, 2021 at 1:25 pm

    Mr Kinnell,
    Yes those are beautiful lines and thank you for presenting them in their simple truth and elegance.

  6. Patrick Kinnell says:
    June 20, 2021 at 10:05 am

    Thank you Judge Reavis, I always enjoy your posts.

  7. Patrick Kinnell says:
    June 20, 2021 at 10:18 am

    Keep the poems coming too, Dr. Fleming.