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Poetry in Europe 1900–1950

Published online by Cambridge University Press:  03 July 2024

Extract

Now that the twentieth century has celebrated its fiftieth birthday, it can no longer plead youth and inexperience as excuses to avoid judgments on its achievements, least of all in its poetry, of which one chapter is practically closed and another has at least made its main point. Of course any survey of European poetry in the last fifty years is bound to be very general and superficial, but is perhaps worth attempting not merely as a matter of historical inquiry but because it may throw some light on the immediate present and the prospects for the near future. We may be still too close to recent developments to see them in their right perspective or to gauge them at their final worth, but much that has happened since 1900 already belongs to a past sufficiently remote for an independent judgment to be passed on it, while much else has revealed its main lines of development, with the result that we may perhaps form a clearer and juster estimate of what the poets have done than was possible when their works were too new to be rightly assessed and suffered alike from the ardent hopes of their protagonists and the shocked disapproval of their opponents.

Type
Research Article
Copyright
Copyright © 1953 Fédération Internationale des Sociétés de Philosophie / International Federation of Philosophical Societies (FISP)

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References

The night which preceded his death
Was the shortest of his life
The idea that he still existed
made the blood boil in his pulses
The weight of his body disheartened him
His force made him moan
But at the very depth of this horror
he began to smile
He had not ONE comrade
but millions and millions
To avenge him-he knew it
And the day rose for him.

I have lost myself many times in the sea
with my ears full of flowers freshly cut,
with my tongue full of love and of agony.
I have lost myself many times in the sea
as I lose myself in the heart of some children.

You are still he of the stone and of the sling,
man of my time. You were in the cockpit,
with the malignant wings, with the meridians of death,
-I have seen you-inside the waggon of flame, at the gallows,
at the wheels of torture. I have seen you; it was you,
with your exact science persuaded to destruction,
without love, without Christ. You have killed again,
as always, as your fathers killed, as they killed
the animals who saw them for the first time.
And the smell of this blood is as on the day
when the brother said to the other brother:
‘Let us go to the fields'. And that echo, cold, clinging,
is fastened on you, within your day.
O sons, forget the clouds of blood
risen from the earth, forget your fathers:
their tombs sink in the ashes,
the black birds, the wind cover their heart.