tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14695753721983247162024-03-27T16:53:49.729-07:00Forgotten Poets of the First World WarLucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comBlogger520125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-72986668931631971452024-03-23T06:37:00.000-07:002024-03-23T06:37:58.584-07:00Robert Bagster Wilson Vinter, MC (1896 – 1916) – British soldier and poet<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With grateful thanks to Rachel Hassall, Archivist at Sherborne School, Dorset, UK</i></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6EswHPPDP8VWRxVRlxzZTnA0Q4yc6hf7XUf5-Wt2UuTTn34iTL4zcuWsLYhLrC0K6Q9Kwo-nrM16SmiKDjpL-_tPOMMFm0yTDRol34l_U-gsGfx0yqbpFyqCwu70Ha86MgTsBaTElPaYcUtwkGVkNuqdbtOXQhxhaoVtTexg9bTww0LObpmis0zHMK0/s176/robert%20bagster%20wilson%20vinter.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="176" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6EswHPPDP8VWRxVRlxzZTnA0Q4yc6hf7XUf5-Wt2UuTTn34iTL4zcuWsLYhLrC0K6Q9Kwo-nrM16SmiKDjpL-_tPOMMFm0yTDRol34l_U-gsGfx0yqbpFyqCwu70Ha86MgTsBaTElPaYcUtwkGVkNuqdbtOXQhxhaoVtTexg9bTww0LObpmis0zHMK0/s1600/robert%20bagster%20wilson%20vinter.jpeg" width="176" /></a></div>Robert was born in Torpoint, St. Germans, Cornwall, UK on 5th April 1896. His parents were Sydney Garrett Vinter, a medical practitioner, and his wife, Frances Vinter, nee Toms. Robert had a sister – Frances Jean, born 1904.<p></p><p>Educated at Sherborne School, Dorset, Robert was awarded a scholarship to study at Keble College, Oxford. However, the First World War intervened and instead he was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant into the 6th Worcestershire Regiment. </p><p>Posted to the Western Front, Robert was awarded the Military Cross on 28th July 1916 for conspicuous gallantry during an attack on an enemy crater. He was killed in action near Les Boeufs (Vimy Ridge) in France on 31st October 1916, during the Battle of the Somme. Robert is remembered on the Thiepval Memorial in France and on the War Memorial in Torpoint, Cornwall. </p><p>An untitled poem written by Robert:</p><p>The Saviour fast nailed to the Cross,</p><p>Suffered theloss of comforting divine</p><p>Because the world’s sin burdened him too much</p><p>With black despair. Some of that sin was mine.</p><p><br /></p><p>Hard sought, scarce won, He set my spirit right</p><p>And bade me follow up th’illumined way!</p><p>Nor leaves me now amid the rocks and thorns,</p><p>Uncomforted, but is my staff and stay.</p><p>October, 1916 R.B.W.V.</p><p>Published in “The Shirburnian” magazine of Sherborne School in April 1917. </p><p>Sources:</p><p>“The Shirburnian” magazine, April 1917</p><p>Find my Past, FreeBMD, </p><p>“Supplement to The London Gazette, 27 July 1916</p><p>http://somme-roll-of-honour.com/Units/british/2nd_worcestershire.htm</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-4857983812638697792024-03-20T06:36:00.000-07:002024-03-20T06:36:56.129-07:00 The Rev. Geoffrey Anktell Studdert Kennedy MC, CF (1883 - 1929) – British Anglican priest, Rugby player, poet and WW1 Chaplain, who was known as 'Woodbine Willy'<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMuWCf9cvJQUYBKN5jCXxcpl3baSiUx-iR2Dj86GRx8dSHi4J0-dZotkP9q3f-ceEw9Tn565orhez4-ErE5G4iq10VNkZcFCh7b4i_vEQno0mDmveZ5H0MBGraH3ItR4IP72Fv_4jzrJvPVZyR0e35mEGxMTji24C2l-lXkAKsNpQn4uAE6irhXi7aks/s358/Rev.%20G.%20A.%20Studdert%20Kennedy%20%20Woodbine%20Willy%201918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="220" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMuWCf9cvJQUYBKN5jCXxcpl3baSiUx-iR2Dj86GRx8dSHi4J0-dZotkP9q3f-ceEw9Tn565orhez4-ErE5G4iq10VNkZcFCh7b4i_vEQno0mDmveZ5H0MBGraH3ItR4IP72Fv_4jzrJvPVZyR0e35mEGxMTji24C2l-lXkAKsNpQn4uAE6irhXi7aks/s320/Rev.%20G.%20A.%20Studdert%20Kennedy%20%20Woodbine%20Willy%201918.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>Born in Leeds, Yorkshire, UK, on 27th June 1883, Geoffrey Anktell Studdert Kennedy’s parents were William Studdert Kennedy, Vicar of St Mary's, Quarry Hill in Leeds, and his wife, Jeanette, nee Anktell. Geoffrey was the seventh of nine children. His paternal grandfather, Robert Mitchell Kennedy, was Dean of Clonfert in County Galway, Ireland from 1850 until his death in 1864. One of Geoffrey's brothers was Hugh A. Studdert Kennedy, a biographer of American religious leader Mary Baker Eddy.<p></p><p>Geoffrey was educated at Leeds Grammar School before going on to study at Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland, where he gained a degree in classics and divinity in 1904. After a year's training at Ripon Clergy College, a Church of England theological college in Cuddesdon, Oxfordshire, Geoffrey became a curate at St Andrew's Church, Rugby, and then, in 1914, the Vicar of St. Paul's, Worcester.</p><p>When the First World War began, Geoffrey volunteered as a Chaplain to the British Army on the Western Front, where he gained the nickname "Woodbine Willie". In 1917, he was awarded the Military Cross at Messines Ridge after running into no man's land to help the wounded during an attack on the German frontline.</p><p>During the war he supported the British military effort with enthusiasm. Attached to a bayonet-training service, Geoffrey toured with boxers and wrestlers to give morale-boosting speeches about the usefulness of the bayonet. One of his inspirational speeches is vividly described by A. S. Bullock as "the most extraordinary talk I ever heard'. Bullock notes that the listeners 'were a very rough, tough lot, but they sat spellbound", and quotes a section of the speech, at the end of which "everybody sprang to their feet and cheered him to the echo".</p><p>Geoffrey wrote a number of poems about his experiences, and these were published by Hodder & Stoughton under the tittles “Rough Rhymes of a Padre” (1918), “More Rough Rhymes”(1919), “Songs of faith and doubt” (1922), “The Sorrows of God, and other poems” (1921) and a collection of his works was published under the title “The Unutterable Beauty” by Hodder & Stoughton in 1927.</p><p>Geoffrey also had a poem published in “A Treasury of War Poetry : British and American poems of the World War, 1914 – 1919” edited by George Herbert Clarke (Hodder & Stoughton, 1919). </p><p>THE SECRET</p><p>You were askin' 'ow we sticks it, </p><p>Sticks this blarsted rain and mud,</p><p>'Ow it is we keeps on smilin'</p><p>When the place runs red wi' blood.</p><p>Since you're askin' I can tell ye,</p><p>And I thinks I tells ye true,</p><p>But it ain't official, mind ye,</p><p>It's a tip twixt me and you.</p><p>For the General thinks it's tactics,</p><p>And the bloomin' plans 'e makes.</p><p>And the C.O. thinks it's trainin',</p><p>And the trouble as he takes.</p><p>Sergeant-Major says it's drillin',</p><p>And 'is straffin' on parade,</p><p>Doctor swears it's sanitation,</p><p>And some patent stinks 'e's made.</p><p>Padre tells us its religion,</p><p>And the Spirit of the Lord;</p><p>But I ain't got much religion,</p><p>And I sticks it still, by Gawd.</p><p>Quarters kids us it's the rations,</p><p>And the dinners as we gets.</p><p>But I knows what keeps us smilin'</p><p>It's the Woodbine Cigarettes.</p><p>For the daytime seems more dreary,</p><p>And the night-time seems to drag</p><p>To eternity of darkness,</p><p>When ye ave'nt got a fag.</p><p>Then the rain seems some'ow wetter,</p><p>And the cold cuts twice as keen,</p><p>And ye keeps on seein' Boches,</p><p>What the Sargint 'asn't seen.</p><p>If ole Fritz 'as been and got ye,</p><p>And ye 'ave to stick the pain,</p><p>If ye 'aven't got a fag on,</p><p>Why it 'urts as bad again.</p><p>When there ain't no fags to pull at,</p><p>Then there's terror in the ranks.</p><p>That's the secret - (yes, I'll 'ave one)</p><p>Just a fag - and many Tanks.</p><p>'Woodbine Willy'</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>THE SPIRIT</p><p>When there ain't no gal to kiss you,</p><p>And the postman seems to miss you,</p><p>And the fags have skipped an issue,</p><p>Carry on.</p><p>When ye've got an empty belly,</p><p>And the bulley's rotten smelly,</p><p>And you're shivering like a jelly,</p><p>Carry on.</p><p>When the Boche has done your chum in,</p><p>And the sergeant's done the rum in,</p><p>And there ain't no rations comin',</p><p>Carry on.</p><p>When the world is red and reeking,</p><p>And the shrapnel shells are shrieking,</p><p>And your blood is slowly leaking,</p><p>Carry on.</p><p>When the broken battered trenches,</p><p>Are like the bloody butchers' benches,</p><p>And the air is thick with stenches,</p><p>Carry on.</p><p>Carry on,</p><p>Though your pals are pale and wan,</p><p>And the hope of life is gone,</p><p>Carry on.</p><p>For to do more than you can,</p><p>Is to be a British man,</p><p>Not a rotten 'also ran,'</p><p>Carry on..</p><p>'Woodbine Willy'</p><p>Sources: Find my Past, FreeBMD, Wikipedia</p><p>Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978). Pp 5 and 185 - 186</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-3721577997145538012024-03-10T11:07:00.000-07:002024-03-20T06:29:39.769-07:00 James Reese Europe (1881 – 1919) – lyricist, composer, musician, band leader and WW1 soldier<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With thanks to John Daniel for reminding me that I had not yet written about James Reese Europe, found for us by Dr. Connie Ruzich </i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KGZPpsHR4RCQki8ELOMnaqxzM12PNWRkHu6HTqhxJpSWsv4oYYQxx8uX9Q53ArqvQaiDhuNaJl1EmznSqF7v82QHsXlyIIkjh1gcjzRlp0nPrtA_54h7OglvesCbgquo4SGsjShtM0YYJ4iLgWx9uTxmaMVny8Byt7FL1aIP83q2VFThZMmIRkn8XRE/s284/James%20Reese%20Europe%20Bandleader%20WW1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="220" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KGZPpsHR4RCQki8ELOMnaqxzM12PNWRkHu6HTqhxJpSWsv4oYYQxx8uX9Q53ArqvQaiDhuNaJl1EmznSqF7v82QHsXlyIIkjh1gcjzRlp0nPrtA_54h7OglvesCbgquo4SGsjShtM0YYJ4iLgWx9uTxmaMVny8Byt7FL1aIP83q2VFThZMmIRkn8XRE/s1600/James%20Reese%20Europe%20Bandleader%20WW1.jpeg" width="220" /></a></div>Born in Mobile, Alabama, USA on 22nd February 1881, James’ parents were Henry Jefferson Europe (1848–1899) and his wife Loraine Europe, nee Saxon (1849–1930). James had four siblings, Minnie Europe (Mrs. George Mayfield; 1868–1931), Ida S. Europe (1870–1919), John Newton Europe (1875–1932), and Mary Loraine (1883–1947). The family moved to Washington, D.C., when James was 10 years old. <p></p><p>During the First World War, James was commissioned into the New York Army National Guard and served as a Lieutenant with the 369th Infantry Regiment (known as the "Harlem Hellfighters") when it was assigned to the French Army. James was the first African-American officer to enter the trenches of WW1 and the first to lead troops in combat</p><p>While in France James went on to direct the regimental band to great acclaim. In February and March 1918, James Reese Europe and his military band travelled over 2,000 miles in France, performing for British, French and American military audiences, as well as French civilians. </p><p>The "Hellfighters" also made their first recordings in France for the Pathé Brothers. The first concert included a French march, and the Stars and Stripes Forever, as well as syncopated numbers such as "The Memphis Blues", which, according to a later description of the concert by band member Noble Sissle "... started ragtimitis in France".</p><p>Injured during a gas attack, James used his time in hospital to compose music; among the songs he wrote while recuperating was “On Patrol in No Man’s Land.”° </p><p>“On Patrol in No Man’s Land”</p><p>What's the time? nine? all in line</p><p>Alright, boys, now take it slow</p><p>Are you ready? Steady!</p><p>Very good, Eddie.</p><p>Over the top, let's go</p><p>Quiet, sly it, else you'll start a riot</p><p>Keep your proper distance, follow 'long</p><p>Cover, smother, when you see me hover</p><p>Obey my orders and you won't go wrong</p><p><br /></p><p>There's a minnenwerfer coming -- </p><p>look out (bang!)</p><p>Hear that roar, there's one more </p><p>Stand fast, there's a Very Light </p><p>Don't gasp or they'll find you alright</p><p>Don't start to bombing with those hand grenades</p><p><br /></p><p>There's a machine gun, holy spades!</p><p>Alert, gas! Put on your masks</p><p>A-just it correctly and hurry up fast</p><p>Drop! There's a rocket for the Boche barrage </p><p>Down, hug the ground,</p><p>close as you can, don't stand</p><p>Creep and crawl, follow me, that's all</p><p>What do you hear? Nothing near</p><p>Don't fear, all is clear</p><p>That's the life of a stroll</p><p>When you take a patrol</p><p>Out in No Man's Land!</p><p>Ain't it grand?</p><p>Out in No Man's Land.</p><p><br /></p><p>James Reese Europe</p><p>You can listen to the 1919 recording of the song here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YeIET9ZIkGk</p><p>After his return home in February 1919, James stated, "I have come from France more firmly convinced than ever that Negros should write Negro music. We have our own racial feeling and if we try to copy whites we will make bad copies ... We won France by playing music which was ours and not a pale imitation of others, and if we are to develop in America we must develop along our own lines." </p><p>James was one of the first African-American musicians to make it to mainstream - James Reese Europe (more commonly known as “Jim Europe”) was the first black bandleader to record in the United States and the first to conduct a black orchestra performing ragtime/jazz music on the concert stage of New York’s Carnegie Hall.</p><p>James died on 9th May1919 and was buried in Arlington National Cemetery · Arlington, Arlington County, Virginia, USA.</p><p>Sources: Wikipedia and </p><p>https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/6553895/james-reese-europe</p><p>https://behindtheirlines.blogspot.com/2017/02/out-in-no-mans-land.html</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-69008841042533084112024-03-02T05:16:00.000-08:002024-03-02T05:16:46.243-08:00Dudley Eyre Persse (1892 - 1915) – Irish poet and WW1 soldier <p> </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><b>With grateful thanks to Ciaran Conlan for finding the link that led to the discovery of this forgotten WW1 soldier poet and to Derek O Byrne White for his help in discovering that Dudley was a poet and finding out more about him. </b></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77JBi9m4r6c1sv6lcY5Y_TxZr9jlTh3nwNGoDws5p_Fn_vvM_WNJ1CWUzQZiGZPbDujnk4-VQ4NywHG1virrE8Cc7DsE9nElKg97qFYa3ByTa-FMGuVKinBJGcGD6P1xb_F-MrGNuCOKfLb5JCpEAXv7_Bf0CJQbrrsADiar48CGexvpXkubms5Fnvl0/s256/Dudley%20Eyre%20Persse%20WW1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="197" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77JBi9m4r6c1sv6lcY5Y_TxZr9jlTh3nwNGoDws5p_Fn_vvM_WNJ1CWUzQZiGZPbDujnk4-VQ4NywHG1virrE8Cc7DsE9nElKg97qFYa3ByTa-FMGuVKinBJGcGD6P1xb_F-MrGNuCOKfLb5JCpEAXv7_Bf0CJQbrrsADiar48CGexvpXkubms5Fnvl0/s1600/Dudley%20Eyre%20Persse%20WW1.jpeg" width="197" /></a></div>Dudley Eyre Persse was born on 14th August 1892 at Eyrecourt, Portumna, County Galway, Ireland (Eire). His parents were Alfred Lovaine Persse and his wife, Florence Geraldine Persse, nee Eyre.<p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">On the Census of 1911, when he was 18 and listed as a scholar, Dudley was recorded living in his parents' house at 20.2 Grove Park (Rathmines & Rathgar West, Dublin).</span></p><p>During the First World War, Dudley served as a Captain in the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, Unit 4th Batallion, attached to 2nd Batallion. He was seriously wounded while on active service on the Western Front - </p><p>‘He saw some Germans going into a wood some distance off and wanted to telephone to the General. There was no telephone in the trench, so he ran 80 yards across the open in a hail of bullets and telephoned from another trench. The General ordered the wood to be shelled at once and commended him for what he had done. He also found that the Germans were mining the trench, and started counter-mining, which stopped the enemy’s game, so he did all he could bravely, poor boy.’ (De Ruvigny’s Roll of Honour)</p><p>Sadly, Dudley died of his wounds on 1st February 1915 at No. 2 Casualty Clearing Station, Bailleul, France. Dudley was buried in Bailleul Communal Cemetery, Bailleul, Departement du Nord, Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France; Grave Reference: PLOT F. 6.</p><p>Derek O Byrne White put me in touch with Gerard Kearnery who has published two books about the extremely interesting Persse Family – “The Perse Family of County Galloway” and “In Days That Were: The Great War and Beyond” – both books are available to purchase from http://www.kennys.ie</p><p>I am hoping to be able to up-date this post with further information.</p><p>Sources:</p><p>A tag from Ciaran Conlan on a post on a Facebook page commemorating Irish Soldiers of WW1</p><p>Additional Sources: </p><p>https://catalogue.nli.ie/Record/vtls000134590</p><p>https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/Persse-173</p><p>https://www.clarelibrary.ie/eolas/coclare/history/clare_men_women_great_war_29.pdf</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-28741504346244050032024-02-28T05:44:00.000-08:002024-02-28T05:44:59.649-08:00 Edouard Chiesa, Croix de Guerre (1887 - 1915) – French poet<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With thanks to Yetkin İşcen who posted information about this poet on the Facebook page Artists of the First World War <span style="text-align: left;">And to Lyn Edmonds via Twitter - @edmondslyn</span><span style="text-align: left;">Eric Ingouf via Twitter - @misteringouf – for considerable additional information </span></i></b></p><p>Edouard Paul Chiesa was born in Marseille, France on 30th January 1887. During his milirary service in the 2nd Regiment of Mountain Artillery (2e Régiment d’Artillerie de Montagne), Edouard reached the rank of Maréchal de Logis (Tr. 'marshal of lodgings'). </p><p>When his military service ended in 1913, Edouard became a Reserve Second Lieutenant and went to work in an office. He continued writing poetry and articles, sending them to local newspapers. The Bulletin des Écrivains of 1914 identifies Edouard Chiesa as a regular contributor to newspapers in the South of France.</p><p>Maréchal de Logis is a sub-officer rank used by some units of the French Armed Forces. It is traditionally a cavalry unit rank. There are three distinct ranks of maréchal des logis, which are generally the equivalents of sergeant ranks (although they generally have less responsibility than a British or Commonwealth sergeant).</p><p>When war broke out in 1914, Edouard rejoined his Regiment and served in France until he was posted to Gallipoli, where he was killed on 7th August 1915.</p><p>AU JOUR LE JOUR (IMPRESSIONS ET FRAGMENTS)</p><p>1. APRÈS LE DÉPART :</p><p>Le navire s'est éloigné. L'espace est large.</p><p>On aperçoit la ville au loin telle une marge.</p><p>Le ciel, qui joint la mer au bord de l'horizon,</p><p>Semble, sous le soleil couchant, en fusion,</p><p>L'air est tout rose où vont en planant les mouettes.</p><p>Les brises ont fraîchi. Mais, les lèvres muettes,</p><p>Les passagers assis songent, les yeux sur l'eau,</p><p>Comme songent ceux qui s'en vont. Un matelot</p><p>Furtivement passe, pieds nus, dans le silence</p><p>Où la machine bat, semblant un cœur immense.</p><p><br /></p><p>English trnslation:</p><p>DAY BY DAY (PRINTS AND FRAGMENTS)</p><p>1. AFTER DEPARTURE:</p><p>The ship has moved away. The space is wide.</p><p>We can see the city in the distance like a margin.</p><p>The sky, which joins the sea to the edge of the horizon,</p><p>Seems, under the setting sun, in fusion,</p><p>The air is all pink where the seagulls glide.</p><p>The breezes have freshened. But, with silent lips,</p><p>The seated passengers are thinking, their eyes on the water,</p><p>As those who leave think. A sailor</p><p>Furtively passes, barefoot, in silence</p><p>Where the engine beats, resembling an immense heart.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68Gkkr-88ZxYAD1urMTqZV282LMUWZKvOeDJUu5UYXtHhyphenhyphenkovSgzV1q4eyx8NmX1wnhIEUieEF4ow2qWiQxiRpWs7bXBH2xODC2h1W-IDKQrqmOKUX0V9I6WYoVmGljL-T3Y0AA46XUACVYxgXFPf5Py4z63XTuZpZo_I5dfmqW_b5JovHltlSt66VGU/s2048/Gravestone%20of%20Edouard%20Chiesa%20poet%20kia%201915%20Gallipoli.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj68Gkkr-88ZxYAD1urMTqZV282LMUWZKvOeDJUu5UYXtHhyphenhyphenkovSgzV1q4eyx8NmX1wnhIEUieEF4ow2qWiQxiRpWs7bXBH2xODC2h1W-IDKQrqmOKUX0V9I6WYoVmGljL-T3Y0AA46XUACVYxgXFPf5Py4z63XTuZpZo_I5dfmqW_b5JovHltlSt66VGU/s320/Gravestone%20of%20Edouard%20Chiesa%20poet%20kia%201915%20Gallipoli.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gravestone found by Yetkin İşcen</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="text-align: center;">Yetkin İşcen </span>found Edouard Chiesa's grave stone in an olive grove in Gelibolu Seddülbahir, near today's Turkish monument.</p><p>Sources: </p><p>Information supplied by <span style="text-align: center;">Yetkin İşcen </span><span style="text-align: center;">via </span>https://www.facebook.com/groups/385353788875799</p><p>https://pgg.parisnanterre.fr/lesindividus2/brouillon-auto-86</p><p>https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k10409590/f2.image.r=%22bulletin%20des%20%C3%A9crivains%22</p><p>CROSS, Tim. "The Lost Voices of World War 1 An International Anthology of Writers, Poets and Playwrights" (Bloomsbury Publishing Ltd., London, 1989), p. 391</p><p>Poems and prose by Edouard Chiesa were included in “Anthologie des écrivains mort à la guerre 1914-18 (Association des écrivains combattants, Amiens, 1924 – 26 – 5 volumes) – Volume 3 – pp. 167 - 170</p><p>https://books.google.co.uk/books?redir_esc=y&hl=fr&id=Woc6AAAAMAAJ&focus=searchwithinvolume&q=Chiesa+</p><p>https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015065457205</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-71005164128173847842024-02-10T10:13:00.000-08:002024-02-10T10:13:39.194-08:00WW1 song lyrics written by a member of the 5th (Reserve) Battalion, New Zealand Rifle Brigade (Earl of Liverpool’s Own),<p> </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>With thanks to Andrew Mackay and Jane Tutte via Andrew’s Facebook page:</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNu-JmsKiGge_TLjARxW8Ew_4o7EnaW6UcoFOeDJFzEZ4aci7RN6lDzLQtX0Q7C4lMoU2ML0JMMi_FCRTidQTEaIgsnOnTv0_9LvAfWMmF_A8wFloAGCq5OX-r1UpFJEpdtWyvX2K8Lf2l6m-kBN5DCcyCN9vJUPUzWnWjHcy1zr-TLPS_tK5-ZqpU0g/s779/Batallion%20National%20Anthem%20words.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNu-JmsKiGge_TLjARxW8Ew_4o7EnaW6UcoFOeDJFzEZ4aci7RN6lDzLQtX0Q7C4lMoU2ML0JMMi_FCRTidQTEaIgsnOnTv0_9LvAfWMmF_A8wFloAGCq5OX-r1UpFJEpdtWyvX2K8Lf2l6m-kBN5DCcyCN9vJUPUzWnWjHcy1zr-TLPS_tK5-ZqpU0g/s320/Batallion%20National%20Anthem%20words.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><br /><p>Published in “The Taranaki Herald” on 31 December 1918, this appears to have been written by a member of the 5th (Reserve) Battalion, New Zealand Rifle Brigade (Earl of Liverpool’s Own), which was then serving at Brocton Camp in Staffordshire. </p><p>The battalion had been stationed at Sling Camp on Salisbury Plain since June 1916, but the accommodation at the camp became overcrowded and on 15 August 1917 the N.Z.R.B. Reserve Troops were moved to tents at Tidworth Pennings. However, the canvas camp would not be suitable for the troops as colder weather approached and an alternative station was required. It was decided to quarter the battalion on Cannock Chase, where more suitable hutted accommodation was available, and on 27 September the battalion entrained for Brocton, which lies at Cannock Chase between Stafford and Cannock. The strength of the N.Z.R.B. Reserve Troops at this time was 1,925 all ranks, and they were joined by the 27th Reinforcement, which had disembarked at Liverpool from New Zealand and had arrived at Brocton ten days previously.</p><p>The units were reorganised to become the 5th (Reserve) Battalion, The New Zealand Rifle Brigade, and Brocton Camp was designated the New Zealand Rifle Brigade Reserve Depot. The “Dinks,” as the Riflemen were known, remained on Cannock Chase until 14 June 1919, when the last detachment of the 5th (Reserve) Battalion left Brocton for Codford Camp.</p><p>Sources: The poem was kindly provided by Historian and author Andrew Mackay and the link to information regarding the lyrics was provided by Jane Tutte:</p><p>https://ourwar1915.wordpress.com/2017/09/28/the-battalion-national-anthem-a-verse-from-the-dinks/?fbclid=IwAR3cCPnmS1zDK9REo-K1H32a5W2XOd9nW5Ko9LVgxo9Z5yiJ9EdBQomkv8s</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-73404706218671282462024-01-19T06:15:00.000-08:002024-01-19T06:16:04.138-08:00Neil Munro (1863 - 1930) - Scottish WW1 Writer, Poet, newspaper Editor and War Correspondent<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGk0MT2eUPU3RBPbEswe-PUUHBc_wj5oEktZhYTR-nQU8Y4B1y9u7VUF5Oz3VvfXwMGUhnaz9ZmhmZM_UuJ1e9Lfjwo_Z4HYhlezscN2tKS18auKU5L-fJFkwHX5YWM_4jAJyYQWII3RbF5n_iKTVanQKM_5d1n3ExoycWJAT7RJVebLH6ggq3hX2bMV4/s783/Neil%20Munro%20pastel%20drawing%20by%20Strang%20Scottish%20artist.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGk0MT2eUPU3RBPbEswe-PUUHBc_wj5oEktZhYTR-nQU8Y4B1y9u7VUF5Oz3VvfXwMGUhnaz9ZmhmZM_UuJ1e9Lfjwo_Z4HYhlezscN2tKS18auKU5L-fJFkwHX5YWM_4jAJyYQWII3RbF5n_iKTVanQKM_5d1n3ExoycWJAT7RJVebLH6ggq3hX2bMV4/w127-h200/Neil%20Munro%20pastel%20drawing%20by%20Strang%20Scottish%20artist.jpg" width="127" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Neil Munro by <br />William Strang RA</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>Neil Munro was born in Inveraray, Stornoway, Ross & Cromarty, Scotland on 3rd June 1863. He became a journalist, newspaper editor, poet, author and literary critic. He married Jessie E. Adam and they lived in Busby, Renfrewshire, Scotland. They had five children. At the outbreak of war in August 1914, Neil commented in verse: </p></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p> “Come awa, Jock, and cock your bonnet,</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>Swing your kilt as best ye can;</p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>Audl Dumbarton’s Drums are dirlin’</p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p> Come awa, Jock, and kill your man.”</p></blockquote></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquhbIyaEddfjsDq8ISRCKbwIS76yDOavidHHY0XS3_eOyn2Xxd4uoUu1WRem3_BVlJw6Kqwtt7QQw_0TtlSg31PS0h8Shyp8SpA6No7LyScq-ehPepRSexljygBJTs7_y6PQMCJWOnnyJTBcHvFg_YEnzcnjsM4vC2NRwQY-aW5qnDJNxz-Z1H2RslKM/s226/Neil%20Munro%20as%20a%20WW1%20war%20correspondent.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="223" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquhbIyaEddfjsDq8ISRCKbwIS76yDOavidHHY0XS3_eOyn2Xxd4uoUu1WRem3_BVlJw6Kqwtt7QQw_0TtlSg31PS0h8Shyp8SpA6No7LyScq-ehPepRSexljygBJTs7_y6PQMCJWOnnyJTBcHvFg_YEnzcnjsM4vC2NRwQY-aW5qnDJNxz-Z1H2RslKM/s1600/Neil%20Munro%20as%20a%20WW1%20war%20correspondent.jpeg" width="223" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neil Munro as official<br />war correspondent, WW1</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In his capacity as an official war correspondent, Neil visited the Western Front several times in 1914 and 1917. The war touched him personally when his elder son, Hugh Adam Munro – a Captain in the 1st/8th battalion, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders – was killed in France on active service on 22nd September 1915. Neil then concentrated on journalism again, but his work was affected by his poor health and the death of his son.</p><p>Neil died on 22nd December 1930.</p><p>Neil Munro’s WW1 poems were published by William Blackwood and Sons Ltd., Edinburgh in 1931, with the title “Poetry by Neil Munro” – with a preface by John Buchan. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiC-3czWOpw66iiNIqLFM1tkeO4AKsRu5dJlT0tziGkhghQo0l0-Ylb7VX9S-kt7FA4OwlvwYZnTrtT-luapd8RrVk7xdLavSwligohNibSv4MooSNCK04u0XNti4Ep9fF7X-nTpGkgqrhoJf_kkaNFdB0LeqwXYh_y3-qv8Jm4s9XrcOX9k1LHdU0bbM/s244/The%20Poetry%20of%20Neil%20Munro%20photo%20of%20title%20page%20from%20his%20WW1%20collection.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="244" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiC-3czWOpw66iiNIqLFM1tkeO4AKsRu5dJlT0tziGkhghQo0l0-Ylb7VX9S-kt7FA4OwlvwYZnTrtT-luapd8RrVk7xdLavSwligohNibSv4MooSNCK04u0XNti4Ep9fF7X-nTpGkgqrhoJf_kkaNFdB0LeqwXYh_y3-qv8Jm4s9XrcOX9k1LHdU0bbM/s1600/The%20Poetry%20of%20Neil%20Munro%20photo%20of%20title%20page%20from%20his%20WW1%20collection.jpeg" width="244" /></a></div><p>Some of Neil Munro’s poems were also published in 12 WW1 anthologies, among them:</p><p>Clarke, George Herbert 1873-1953 .- “ A Treasury of war poetry: British and American poems of the World War, 1914 – 1919.” With intro. And notes. Second series. Houghton Mifflin, Boston (Mass.) 1919, which is available to read as a free download on Archive:</p><p>https://archive.org/stream/s2treasuryofwar00claruoft/s2treasuryofwar00claruoft_djvu.txt</p><p>NEIL MUNRO: “Pipes in Arras” pp. 27 - 28</p><p>PIPES IN ARRAS (APRIL 1917) </p><p>IN the burgh toun of Arras </p><p>When gloaming had come on, </p><p>Fifty pipers played Retreat </p><p>As if they had been one, </p><p>And the Grande Place of Arras </p><p>Hummed with the Highland drone! </p><p><br /></p><p>Then to the ravaged burgh, </p><p>Champed into dust and sand, </p><p>Came with the pipers' playing, </p><p>Out of their own loved land, </p><p>Sea-sounds that moan for sorrow </p><p>On a dispeopled strand. </p><p><br /></p><p>There are in France no voices </p><p>To speak of simple things, </p><p>And tell how winds will whistle </p><p>Through palaces of kings; </p><p>Now came the truth to Arras </p><p>In the chanter's warblings: </p><p><br /></p><p>“O build in pride your towers, </p><p>But think not they will last; </p><p>The tall tower and the shealing </p><p>Alike must meet the blast, </p><p>And the world is strewn with shingle </p><p>From dwellings of the past." </p><p><br /></p><p>But to the Grande Place, Arras, </p><p>Came, too, the hum of bees, </p><p>That suck the sea-pink's sweetness </p><p>From isles of the Hebrides, </p><p>And in lona fashion </p><p>Homes mid old effigies: </p><p><br /></p><p>"Our cells the monks demolished </p><p>To make their mead of yore, </p><p>And still though we be ravished </p><p>Each Autumn of our store, </p><p>While the sun lasts, and the flower, </p><p>Tireless we'll gather more." </p><p><br /></p><p>Up then and spake with twitt'rings </p><p>Out of the chanter reed, ^ </p><p>Birds that each Spring to Appin, </p><p>Over the oceans speed, </p><p>And in its ruined castles </p><p>Make love again and breed: </p><p><br /></p><p>"Already see our brothers </p><p>Build in the tottering fane! </p><p>Though France should be a desert, </p><p>While love and Spring remain, </p><p>Men will come back to Arras, </p><p>And build and weave again.'* </p><p><br /></p><p>So played the pipes in Arras </p><p>Their Gaelic symphony, </p><p>Sweet with old wisdom gathered </p><p>In isles of the Highland sea, </p><p>And eastward towards Cambrai, </p><p>Roared the artillery. </p><p><br /></p><p>Neil Munro</p><p>Sources: Wiki[pedia, Find my Past, FreeBMD,</p><p>Catherine W. Reilly.- “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin, Press, New York, 1978). P. 232, </p><p>Clarke, George Herbert 1873-1953 .- “ A Treasury of war poetry: British and American poems of the World War, 1914 – 1919.” With intro. And notes. Second series. Houghton Mifflin, Boston (Mass.) 1919.</p><p>https://www.express.co.uk/news/world-war-1/466382/Scotland-the-brave-Tough-kilties-battled-for-Britain-in-WWI</p><p>https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poet/neil-munro/</p><p>http://www.inverclydeww1.org/honour-roll/hugh-adam-munro</p><p>Pastel Portrait of Neil Munro by William Strang RA (13 February 1859 – 12 April 1921) - a Scottish painter and printmaker who illustrated the works of Bunyan, Coleridge and Kipling.</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-85636688633132183972024-01-13T10:31:00.000-08:002024-01-14T06:42:19.365-08:00 Arthur Keedwell Harvey James (1875 – 1917) – British actor, soldier poet, Freemason and writer who took the stage/pen name Arthur Scott Craven <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24sxeLLa9msFzCqpwZj2CN8wE585vdGp8KLcqmm7w189S5DkPu0V3pJYywr-Bo2oOTWMRR7gspkub2omJlcwOh2dp2tyewtENd6vt-UL2f_VmxQzE-EgYcd0ljQBg6yOKctVjmGNvnwjXk_F8UpJh5O1cQi98P6Fnj4ZyVgNa-uDyCBNW6G9fUk7QmH8/s800/A%20K%20Harvey%20James%20photo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="566" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24sxeLLa9msFzCqpwZj2CN8wE585vdGp8KLcqmm7w189S5DkPu0V3pJYywr-Bo2oOTWMRR7gspkub2omJlcwOh2dp2tyewtENd6vt-UL2f_VmxQzE-EgYcd0ljQBg6yOKctVjmGNvnwjXk_F8UpJh5O1cQi98P6Fnj4ZyVgNa-uDyCBNW6G9fUk7QmH8/s320/A%20K%20Harvey%20James%20photo.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>I have not been able to find much definite information about Arthur, although there is an interesting account of her early life written by his daughter who was born in 1906 and also became a writer. <p></p><p>According to my extensive research, Arthur Keedwell Harvey James was born in 1875. His parents were Stephen and Sarah Harvey James. Arthur was educated at Shrewsbury School in Shropshire, leaving In 1888. Arthur became an actor, adopting the stage name Arthur Scott-Craven, and starring in 'Ivanhoe'. He wrote a number of books, poems and plays.</p><p>He was a Freemason – a member of the Drury Lane Lodge.</p><p>Arthur Married Meliora Louisa Harvey-James, née Milner, 1875-1944. – their son Basil Milner Keedwell James was born on 24th December 1904 and a daughter, Olive, was born in 1906. Arthur and Louisa separated at some point in 1912.</p><p>Within two days of the start of the First World War in August 1914, by which time he was nearly forty years old, Arthur applied for a commission in the Army. He wrote to all his friends urging them enlist. His application was rejected on health grounds, but he made his way down to the headquarters of The Artists Rifles and stood for the most part of two days in the queue that gathered at its doors, eager to enrol, before he was enlisted.</p><p>In November 1914, Arthur was commissioned into the 1st Bn. The Buffs (Royal East Kent Regiment). He was speedily promoted to be a Temporary Captain, commanding a company. In spite of being given a series of staff jobs he volunteered for front line service and was killed on 15th April 1917. Mentioned in Despatches, Arthur was buried in ST. PATRICK'S CEMETERY, LOOS Cemetery/memorial – Grave reference: III. A. 6. He is also remembered on the WW1 memorial in St Just Cornwall and in The Buffs (East Kent) Regiment - First World War Book Of Remembrance (WMR 40979), Canterbury, Kent, UK.</p><p>Arthur’s friend, fellow actor, Freemason, WW1 soldier poet and writer Robert Henderson-Bland (1876 – 1941) wrote a poem about his friend Arthur after his death in combat in 1917.</p><p>https://forgottenpoetsofww1.blogspot.com/2024/01/robert-henderson-bland-1876-1941.html</p><div><br /></div><p>Works by Arthur Keedwell Harvey James - Arthur Scott Craven:</p><p>The Last of the English (1910) A play in four acts</p><p>The Fool's Tragedy (1913) A novel</p><p>Poetry:</p><p>Poems in Divers Keys (1904)</p><p>Joe Skinner, or, The man with the sneer (1907)</p><p>Alarums and Excursions (1910)</p><p>"ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS " BY ARTHUR SCOTT CRAVEN</p><p>In memory of the third of August MCMX (LONDON, ELKIN MATHEWS, VIGO STREET, W. MCMX)</p><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE</p><p>As the original editions of " Poems in Divers Keys "and " Joe Skinner " are now exhausted, I have made a selection here of some of those poems which appearedin the first volume. "Joe Skinner " reappears in extenso.</p><p>On a previous occasion I expressed my acknowledgments to the proprietors and editors of those papers by whose courtesy I was permitted to re-publish several of the shorter pieces. The present volume contains considerable matter now published for the first time, including " Fudge " and " Mukerji Lal," both in a light vein.</p><p>ARTHUR SCOTT CRAVEN. August, 1910.</p><p>Some of his poems:</p><p>“A Fragment”</p><p>IN Life's meridian could we hold</p><p>The sun, like Joshua of old -</p><p>To keep in check advancing night,</p><p>And change our fortune in the fight.</p><p>Or could we bid the moon abide</p><p>To suit our circumstance and tide -</p><p>Had we the power,</p><p>Or I, or you</p><p>(Who dream away this pregnant hour),</p><p>What things we'd do !</p><p>Page 31 </p><p><br /></p><p>"The Call to Arms "</p><p>Hodge Loquitur</p><p>"TAINT no sort o' use denyin'</p><p>There's a summat about dyin'</p><p>To the sound o' bugle calls,</p><p>An' the thud o' cannon balls ,</p><p>An' the whiz o' bullets flyin' ,</p><p>An' the rumble o' guns firin'</p><p>Wot's consid’rable inspirin'</p><p>Tothe man as stays behind.</p><p><br /></p><p>Yus, it's fine an' fair excitin' ,</p><p>An' a thing I takes delight in :</p><p>Just the thought o' beggars fightin'</p><p>Makes me tingle through and through !</p><p>It's the martial instinct brewin',</p><p>An' it kinder needs subjuin' ,</p><p>So my wery best I'm doin'</p><p>All sich feelin's to subjoo.</p><p><br /></p><p>I'm a chap o' brawn an' muscle,</p><p>An' it's 'ard to ' ave to tussle</p><p>' Gin these bulldog inclinations</p><p>When sich fever fires the blood,</p><p>But the thought o' my relations -</p><p>(In pertikler dear old mother) -</p><p>Makes me wishful fer to smother</p><p>All sich feelin's in the bud.</p><p><br /></p><p>Still, there ain't no use denyin'</p><p>There's a summat about dyin'</p><p>To the rumble o' guns firin'</p><p>Wot's pertikler inspirin'.</p><p>Pp 33 - 34 </p><p><br /></p><p>The Eternal Now</p><p>To dream of a gilded morrow shall we sleep through the golden day,</p><p>And steep for ever our senses in wishes and hopes and fears ?</p><p>E'en as we long and repine the hour hath glided away,</p><p>And added its wailing note to the dirge of the wasted years!</p><p>P. 38</p><p>Critique:</p><p>" Mr. Craven sings with equal ease in many tones-narrative,</p><p>reflective, dialect, the light song, the serious monologue ; the poet's</p><p>interest always centering in human joys and sorrows, and his note</p><p>clear, polished and musical. ”—The Times.</p><p>Sources: Free BMD, Find my Past, various other sites:</p><p>https://timenote.info/en/Arthur-Keedwell-Harvey-James</p><p>http://www.westwardhohistory.co.uk/memories/memories-by-olive-ordish/</p><p>There is also a very brief biographical note in the WW1 anthology “For remembrance: soldier poets who have fallen in the war” (1920) by A. St. John Adcock.</p><p>https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/For_remembrance:_soldier_poets_who_have_fallen_in_the_war/Chapter_3#73</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-42962680801548853652024-01-12T05:57:00.000-08:002024-01-12T05:57:56.005-08:00 Robert Henderson-Bland (1876 – 1941) – British actor, writer, Freemason and WW1 soldier poet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDPJPDvO8xY5hjbfbRMOIRrO7Tx6s0R-eCcZHI1iziG9DEmIwiJieeZVmPGqt7s6E2axcpdp3YMTD7Kf1AeL5IO3RZ0m-Kn4BJH96JWNc2ypN1UoxsVX2EiUnHVkqoIom2882KqGX1-aMJkz8oaR-EuV_tZXQpGKX0PBy6tjn_09CIx-ZUkxErusVlqg/s262/Robert%20Henderson-Bland%20photograph.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="262" data-original-width="193" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDPJPDvO8xY5hjbfbRMOIRrO7Tx6s0R-eCcZHI1iziG9DEmIwiJieeZVmPGqt7s6E2axcpdp3YMTD7Kf1AeL5IO3RZ0m-Kn4BJH96JWNc2ypN1UoxsVX2EiUnHVkqoIom2882KqGX1-aMJkz8oaR-EuV_tZXQpGKX0PBy6tjn_09CIx-ZUkxErusVlqg/s1600/Robert%20Henderson-Bland%20photograph.jpeg" width="193" /></a></div>Born on 10th March 1876 in Croydon, Surrey, UK, Robert’s parents were William Charles Bland (1828 –1890), a clock manufacturer and church bell founder, and his wife, Frances Maria, nee Baker (1838 - 1910).<p></p><p>Robert’s siblings were: Rosetta (b.1861 d.1942), Clara Elizabeth (b.1864 d.1935), Charles Edward Evans (b.1866 d.1938), Spencer William (b.1872 d.1945), Percy Richard (b.1874 d.1917) and Leopold Grosvenor Bland (b.1877 d.1947).</p><p>Robert became an actor and worked with Sir Herbert Beerbohm-Tree during the great days of Her Majesty's Theatre in London. He accompanied Lily Langtry on her tour of South Africa, and acted with American actress Mrs. Brown Potter.</p><p>In 1910, Robert married Maud Hyde in St. George’s, Hannover Square, London, UK. </p><p>Away acting in America when the First World War broke out, Robert, who was a Freemason, returned to England and enlisted in the Gloucester Regiment, serving as a Captain. Posted to the Western Front in July 1916, Robert was wounded in April 1918.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQO_Te0lKqQZfYlTWxNbXLdiPmyjQKyBOrv1CDtZRisiQlUqxLFg0lOxK-wsrOPdPPOBK-e23Avc2P-19_SF0_9QENi9v8tj7G9rEe0Ix75INXo4EX4yQQjcA8aHJinRjyokm_ctrnhQnBwtQyeBCMBRrtaRpqNoqkCWPuOpvgALcD65_sjnZyCjBjZ0/s358/Robert%20Henderson-Bland%20Portrait%20in%20oil%20by%20Hampton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="282" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQO_Te0lKqQZfYlTWxNbXLdiPmyjQKyBOrv1CDtZRisiQlUqxLFg0lOxK-wsrOPdPPOBK-e23Avc2P-19_SF0_9QENi9v8tj7G9rEe0Ix75INXo4EX4yQQjcA8aHJinRjyokm_ctrnhQnBwtQyeBCMBRrtaRpqNoqkCWPuOpvgALcD65_sjnZyCjBjZ0/s320/Robert%20Henderson-Bland%20Portrait%20in%20oil%20by%20Hampton.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Henderson-Bland, WW1<br />portrait in oil by Robert Hampton</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Robert wrote the following poem after the death of his friend and fellow soldier, poet, writer, actor and Freemason, Arthur Scott-Craven - stage and pen name of Arthur Keedwell Harvey James (1875 – 1917) - to whom Robert dedicated a volume of his poetry published in June 1917:</p><p><br /></p><p>‘O all my youth came singing back to me</p><p>When first I learnt that you were dead, my friend.</p><p>What of the years when you and I did see</p><p>In life a splendour daily spilt to mend</p><p>Our souls grown tired of trivial delights?</p><p>Not lost to you the glimpses of the heights,</p><p>For you went gladly where the worst is surely best.’</p><p><br /></p><p>Robert acted in films between 1912 and 1921. He was killed during the Blitz in August 1941.</p><p>The Blitz was a German bombing campaign against the United Kingdom, in 1940 and 1941, during the Second World War. The term was first used by the British press and originated from the term Blitzkrieg - the German word meaning 'lightning war'.</p><p>Films in which Robert acted: </p><p>From the Manger to the Cross (1912)</p><p>Mr. Gilfil's Love Story (1920)</p><p>General Post (1920)</p><p>A Cigarette-Maker's Romance (1920)</p><p>The Wife whom God Forgot (1920)</p><p>Gwyneth of the Welsh Hills (1921)</p><p><br /></p><p>Another of Robert’s poems:<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9bzlzLnNKSs3wJBw_rJb1T6BLUFYbyELiqpVJ1X8WCbdWlX9owvLevIBpKSuBbjeXXpfSU3EqgHSNcLIkcU6kaKL8I0Epfl725VmLCJ9UQ5xSgVv9_DWQcC2xcv4ERGIfkIlLGYbFzfPndpEkjCOH2lZdovb3Krnp7xiAJGfCcsWNTWDSTpSNmfMeEY/s275/Ramparts%20Cemetary%20Lille%20Gate%20Ypres%20CWGC.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9bzlzLnNKSs3wJBw_rJb1T6BLUFYbyELiqpVJ1X8WCbdWlX9owvLevIBpKSuBbjeXXpfSU3EqgHSNcLIkcU6kaKL8I0Epfl725VmLCJ9UQ5xSgVv9_DWQcC2xcv4ERGIfkIlLGYbFzfPndpEkjCOH2lZdovb3Krnp7xiAJGfCcsWNTWDSTpSNmfMeEY/s1600/Ramparts%20Cemetary%20Lille%20Gate%20Ypres%20CWGC.jpeg" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ramparts Cemetery Lille Gate, Ypres<br />CWGC </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>THE RAMPARTS CEMETRY (LILLE GATE) YPRES</p><p> (Night of June 4th, 1933) </p><p><br /></p><p> Calm and lovely is the night,</p><p> And the graves are lovely too:</p><p> The moon rides high as if it rode</p><p> With deep intent to strew</p><p> Its beams upon the water</p><p> Where peace is born anew.</p><p><br /></p><p> It is well with you, my brothers, it is well</p><p> Sleeping in the shadows of this immortal place</p><p> That saw your comrades pass, and pass again,</p><p> And was the silent witness of their grace,</p><p> And all their holy pain.</p><p> (Printed in "The Ypres Times")</p><p><br /></p><p>Sources: Wikipedia, Find my Past, Free BMD, CWGC website,</p><p>https://www.delahyde.com/joan/index.html?https://www.delahyde.com/joan/pagesj/cross.html</p><p>Information supplied by Antony R. Crofts - Professor of Biophysics & Computational Biology at the University of Illinois, a grandson of Spencer William Bland - and Richard Bland, who runs a company selling farm machinery in Shrewsbury, Shropshire, England and is a grandson of Percy Richard Bland, who was killed in WW1 in the Battle of the Somme.</p><p>“Actor-sioldier-poet: (autobiography) with an appreciation by General Sir Herbert Gough. (Heath, Cranton, 1939). Includes “A Sheaf of poems” - Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 166</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-71679097648966354952023-12-10T08:36:00.000-08:002023-12-11T07:02:33.238-08:00 T.B. Clark ( ? - ? ) – WW1 poet <p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Found by Andrew Mackay who very kindly sent me a copy of T.B. Clark’s collection</i></b><b><i>“Rhymes of Two Regiments: A Souvenir of the Trenches” (William Nicholson & Sons Ltd., London & Wakefield).</i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQgY9pBQzwIkYrBZrxFg2zXAynELQzdb9H5cC0jTFWLNd-HmvfKN2X4XI0hdeTVF1vsnU1Vq7GPD7ByXUYJy5mO370AiPDYaP_4Nbnpic08VmhsfrHe4zlN_OBum194yhkJliDEGJ_mHeal_Ie6WyZq2VM6Wg8F9dEoh_ToynivaDr9GCVKc_KYktq6w/s3463/T.%20Bl%20Clarke%20photograph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3463" data-original-width="2598" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQgY9pBQzwIkYrBZrxFg2zXAynELQzdb9H5cC0jTFWLNd-HmvfKN2X4XI0hdeTVF1vsnU1Vq7GPD7ByXUYJy5mO370AiPDYaP_4Nbnpic08VmhsfrHe4zlN_OBum194yhkJliDEGJ_mHeal_Ie6WyZq2VM6Wg8F9dEoh_ToynivaDr9GCVKc_KYktq6w/s320/T.%20Bl%20Clarke%20photograph.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="text-align: left;"><br />T.B. Clark served as a Rifleman with the King’s Royal Rifle Brigade in France and Salonika during the First World War. I cannot find out anything about him, other than the fact that he was a very prolific poet. He has a large entry listing his WW1 poems – most of which were printed as broadsides - in Catherine W. Reilly’s “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978), pp. 85 – 87. If anyone can help find more about T.B. Clark, please get in touch</span><p></p><p>Here is one of T.B. Clark’s poems from his collection “Rhymes of two Regiments: A Souvenir of the Trenches” (William Nicholson & Sons, Ltd., London and Wakefield – 7th impression):</p><p>“The K.R.R.E.’s.” by Rifleman T.B. Clark, K.R.R.</p><p>(With apologies to Sergt. Burley and Corpl. Lovell.)</p><p>(Composed in the Trenches at Armentieres, July 1915.)</p><p>THIS is the K.R.R.E. Mob, never hard up for a job,</p><p>Working early, working late, never known to put on weight ;</p><p>In the trenches every day, you will hear the Sergeant say –</p><p>“Bandolier and Rifle quick, get a shovel and a pick.”</p><p>Every morning, very early, you’ll discover Sergeant Burley,</p><p>While your bit of bacon’s cooking, for a working party looking,</p><p>“Get a pick and get a shovel, go along with Corporal Lovell,</p><p>Go and pick, and spade, and delve, you will be relieved at twelve.”</p><p>When the Germans you have strated, go and do your three hours’ graft,</p><p>If you did not know before, you’re the K.R.R.E. Corps,</p><p>And you never joined to fight, but to work with all your might ;</p><p>With your breakfast still uneaten, you must work till you’re dead beaten,</p><p>For they do not stop for trifles in the K.R.R.E. Rifles. </p><p>In an explanatory note included with a poem entitled “The Strafing Section”, the poet explains: “The word “strafe” is used in Tommy’s vocabulary to indicate any form of attack.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhOIxBeQxIopIn6upiQArrZyqlR9zOHoXvHFapwWSpfho9RhgX0FjPpLe3q7TH64vnPQyuf8G1MjOytbvinnsW3NNIXu-D9iC7zOr8Wtre7CZaCda8VUUFPhY0oIcBrbJbQEfgxRoctZgpA7nbobmYcsc2zq4z4YWvSS55INBQp7wh1nqrLYDZn_2Pmk/s204/Cap%20Badge%20King's%20Royal%20Rifle%20Corps.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="204" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivhOIxBeQxIopIn6upiQArrZyqlR9zOHoXvHFapwWSpfho9RhgX0FjPpLe3q7TH64vnPQyuf8G1MjOytbvinnsW3NNIXu-D9iC7zOr8Wtre7CZaCda8VUUFPhY0oIcBrbJbQEfgxRoctZgpA7nbobmYcsc2zq4z4YWvSS55INBQp7wh1nqrLYDZn_2Pmk/s1600/Cap%20Badge%20King's%20Royal%20Rifle%20Corps.jpeg" width="204" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cap Badge of King's Royal<br />Rifle Corps</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A bandolier is a shoulder belt with loops or pockets for cartridges.</p><p>Broadsides were single sheets of paper printed on one side only. They were chiefly textual rather than pictorial and were printed to be read unfolded and posted up in public places. At first they were used for the printing of royal proclamations and official notices. Uses of the word date from the 16th century. In size most broadsides ranged from approximately 13" x 16" ("foolscap" size) to over 5 feet in length. </p><p>According to Reilly, part of the profit of the sale of T.B. Clark’s collection “Poems of a private: a souvenir o f France and Salonika” (William Nicholson & Sons, Ltd., London) was for St. Dunstan’s Hostel for Blinded Soldiers and Sailors (now Blind Veterans UK). </p><p>St Dunstan’s charity was founded in 1915 by publisher and newspaper owner Sir Arthur Pearson. Sir Arthur - who was blind - in order to help the large number of veterans who lost their sight during the First World War.</p><p>Originally called the Blinded Soldiers and Sailors Care Committee, the charity soon became known as St Dunstan’s, which was the name of the first headquarters in Regent’s Park, central London.</p><p>https://www.blindveterans.org.uk/about-us/who-we-are/our-history/</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-74118978952525880212023-10-15T12:31:00.005-07:002023-10-16T05:26:59.408-07:00 Peter Baum (1869 – 1916) – German poet and writer <p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With thanks to AC Benus* for his fantastic work and research, for finding this poet for us and for finding and translating the poem featured. </i></b> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKgb2vWSwtm7ag5s3xzBsNDZ5QafGGbNOdfCmdJyCb68ZwQJHZbYLwmZcY-bEwOOqei153gIzjvhcTYsbwurtTEcsK8eVmHnp0L2ChRg_xpqwt2qLQDRrM4667xz_-U2kK3O0G7oCuQQy32xDOvagDIcjpYoOwwEB03o0XnPd7CHxX1rOqZHXvl_OLt8/s317/Peter_Baum%201910.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="220" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIKgb2vWSwtm7ag5s3xzBsNDZ5QafGGbNOdfCmdJyCb68ZwQJHZbYLwmZcY-bEwOOqei153gIzjvhcTYsbwurtTEcsK8eVmHnp0L2ChRg_xpqwt2qLQDRrM4667xz_-U2kK3O0G7oCuQQy32xDOvagDIcjpYoOwwEB03o0XnPd7CHxX1rOqZHXvl_OLt8/s1600/Peter_Baum%201910.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>Peter Baum was born in Elberfeld, Wuppertal, Germany, on 30th September 1869. He volunteered at the beginning of the First World War and was killed on 5th June 1916 at the age of 46 in Keckau, near Riga in Latvia.<p></p><p>Peter Baum’s collection of "trench verses" was published posthumously. They have been made available in VERSENSPORN No. 15 for the first time in almost a hundred years.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Wir sitzen da mit wenig Haaren,</p><p>Als seien eben wir geboren,</p><p>Und Sind doch lange schon bei Jahren.</p><p><br /></p><p> Gesichte immer Sich enthüllen,</p><p>Als wären wir noch junge Füllen</p><p>Mit Zukunftsrauschen in den Ohren.</p><p><br /></p><p>AC Benus has kindly translated the poem for us:</p><p><br /></p><p>We sit here with thinning hair in truth,</p><p>As if a tribe of newborns in years,</p><p>Though we're one already long of tooth.</p><p><br /></p><p>But our faces unbosom our roles,</p><p>As if we were a herd of young foals</p><p>With futurity rushing our ears.</p><p>from “Schützengrabenverse” (Verlag der Sturm (Tr. Trench Verses) , Berlin, 1916)</p><p>Sources:</p><p>https://www.wikidata.org/wiki/Q2073822</p><p>https://digital.ub.uni-duesseldorf.de/ihd/content/pageview/1069606</p><div><div>AC Benus is the author of "The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations into English. ISBN: 978-1657220584 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xxp0-vUNwuXsGJFWdQHJ344mOQpcX9pFDYXHWOwPU8aM1AealUBA12nlTJwHoS1Dr1SGmYk6T7JWFbSijdCf3WlruMauwaJ3BFs5Dn3Z5ltdA-f85tLSyZswGr6BOtjTjIXx8m_PNGNsfG83v0lFJoDbwQG9zhorCPuJHb8So9vP_B59uE4VjixgT_Y/s3704/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3704" data-original-width="2433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Xxp0-vUNwuXsGJFWdQHJ344mOQpcX9pFDYXHWOwPU8aM1AealUBA12nlTJwHoS1Dr1SGmYk6T7JWFbSijdCf3WlruMauwaJ3BFs5Dn3Z5ltdA-f85tLSyZswGr6BOtjTjIXx8m_PNGNsfG83v0lFJoDbwQG9zhorCPuJHb8So9vP_B59uE4VjixgT_Y/s320/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Book details: ISBN: 978-1657220584</div><div><br /></div><div>https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583</div><div><br /></div><div>https://www.amazon.com/dp/1657220583</div><div><br /></div><div>https://www.amazon.de/dp/1657220583</div><div><br /></div><div>Cover photo: Mark Basarab</div></div><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-2608811799236262642023-10-13T10:03:00.000-07:002023-10-13T10:03:04.743-07:00 Ambrose Vickers (1875 - 1956) – poet and Blacksmith<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With grateful thanks to Andrew Mackay for finding this poem for us and to Dave Cole via Twitter - who found me the information I needed enabling me to research Private Vickers. Andrew Mackay also sent me information about “Little Kitchener”.</i></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNum997dTq0eCImKbQ4UkteT5Oyg4nn1ID1zkHw-3-eMJn6CSyIAe1WCjc1doyNBYl4ZodKfnZqVLbaUG_dRtRUSdTcpT9LDmGV10InUN4Eh7cVrNGUBRHd0vbBpK1WY4g_EMKEMx8orSNNw5BlkKRhcDMS0nZJLC6x6YURVkJ0G4FG1gfi-FeDhSfHQU/s1790/Poem%20by%20Ambrose%20Vickers%20on%20postcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1790" data-original-width="1104" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNum997dTq0eCImKbQ4UkteT5Oyg4nn1ID1zkHw-3-eMJn6CSyIAe1WCjc1doyNBYl4ZodKfnZqVLbaUG_dRtRUSdTcpT9LDmGV10InUN4Eh7cVrNGUBRHd0vbBpK1WY4g_EMKEMx8orSNNw5BlkKRhcDMS0nZJLC6x6YURVkJ0G4FG1gfi-FeDhSfHQU/s320/Poem%20by%20Ambrose%20Vickers%20on%20postcard.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><br />Ambrose Vickers was born on 12th January 1875 in Bunbury, Chechire, UK. His parents were Samuel Vickers, a Journeyman bricklayer, and his wife, Mary Vickers, nee Large. <p></p><p>By the time of the 1891 Census, Ambrose was apprenticed to a local Blacksmith. The 1901 Census records him as boarding in Benedi Court Street, Bootle cum Linacre, West Derby, Lancashire, with his occupation being Coachsmith. He was still registered at the address in West Derby in 1911.</p><p>As far as I can ascertain, Ambrose was in the Army Service Corps during the First World War, serving as a driver. A further message from Dave Cole via Twitter (@MrCheapSeats) confirms my discovery.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCM9jsmcQM3H0cKdqy_LhYTMixEbOPfIKX8VBxAvSuWJ2i0ViG-IZtDLg90h-nxjKJA0a7-HLHFEmSKHBRNySmMQd-lrsuZZ38GcAXcqOa5tXVxa_Nk8a_62U3eLn-trrvWkjflLNz8_D8L2sf55BRrU8bpWxwi07kA6WJgU502tdQ7qdbBaqoM3lneg/s1440/Ambrose%20Vicker%20RAMC%20Service%20Card%202.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1002" data-original-width="1440" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCM9jsmcQM3H0cKdqy_LhYTMixEbOPfIKX8VBxAvSuWJ2i0ViG-IZtDLg90h-nxjKJA0a7-HLHFEmSKHBRNySmMQd-lrsuZZ38GcAXcqOa5tXVxa_Nk8a_62U3eLn-trrvWkjflLNz8_D8L2sf55BRrU8bpWxwi07kA6WJgU502tdQ7qdbBaqoM3lneg/s320/Ambrose%20Vicker%20RAMC%20Service%20Card%202.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Ambrose survived the war and in 1921 was registered as living in Slack Road, Barnston, Barnston, Wirral, Cheshire, working as a Blacksmith for Liverpool Corporation Electric Tramways Building & Maintanence.</p><p>In 1939 he was registered as a retired Blacksmith living in Benedict Street, Bootle, Bootle C.B., Lancashire.</p><p>Ambrose died in Liverpool in 1956. </p><p>Unfortunately I can’t find a photograph of Ambrose - if anyone has one please get in touch. The image above the poem on the postcard is of "Little Kitchener" - little Jennie Jackson from Lancashire. Jennie was known as "Young Kitchener" for the work she did during the First World War, collecting money to fund parcels for the fighting men. Jennie's mother, Kate, dressed Jennie as young Kitchener and they collected enough money to buy a field ambulance too. WW1 poet Thomas Napoleon Smith wrote a poem about Jennie - https://forgottenpoetsofww1.blogspot.com/2018/07/thomas-napoleon-smith-pen-name-tonosa.html</p><p>"The postcard shown above was written by Pte. A Vickers in appreciation of a parcel he had received from "Little Kitchener"</p><p>Private Ambrose Vickers was not a Burnley man, born in Bunbury in Cheshire, he was a Blacksmith by trade. At the start of the war he was almost 40 years old, and not eligible for front line service."</p><p>Bunbury is a village in Cheshire, UK, south of Tarporley and north west of Nantwich on the Shropshire Union Canal.</p><p>Sources: Find my Past, FreeBMD, and http://www.burnleyinthegreatwar.info/burnleypicturesandpostcards2.htm</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-61074444325914841602023-10-06T06:45:00.000-07:002023-10-06T06:45:15.413-07:00Alain-Fournier - pen name of Henri-Alban Fournier (1886 – 1914) - French author, poet and soldier. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkil-BzM2dIkYikUdZKAzdx8fjxMVyCBihRIA_u1EqXUGnHYTtQeGmnj8BsmyXmYqH9KfGwqse1LV6kaq3dwuOrF9B_QeiOM0l7StQkujPSbBAnjjjzQXo1Sqlv__Zjw5-CXfrWgUKN24G9OsWJmsSBCgFRtYvVsu1K9CkBSU3l7Afb346D2CCSqE3v8w/s2048/Alain%20Fournier.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1789" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkil-BzM2dIkYikUdZKAzdx8fjxMVyCBihRIA_u1EqXUGnHYTtQeGmnj8BsmyXmYqH9KfGwqse1LV6kaq3dwuOrF9B_QeiOM0l7StQkujPSbBAnjjjzQXo1Sqlv__Zjw5-CXfrWgUKN24G9OsWJmsSBCgFRtYvVsu1K9CkBSU3l7Afb346D2CCSqE3v8w/s320/Alain%20Fournier.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>Born Henri-Alban Fournier on 3rd October 1886 in La Chapelle-d'Angillon, in the Cher département in central France, Fournier’s father was a school teacher. <p></p><p>He studied at the Lycée Lakanal in Sceaux, Hauts-de-Seine, near Paris, where he prepared for the entrance examination to the École Normale Supérieure, but without success. At the Lycée Lakanal, he met Jacques Rivière, and the two became close friends. </p><p>Fournier went on to study at the merchant marine school in Brest. In 1909, Jacques Rivière married Fournier's younger sister Isabelle.</p><p>Abandoning his studies in 1907, from 1908 to 1909 Fournier did his military service. Around that time, he published some essays, poems and stories which were later collected and re-published under the title “Miracles”. </p><p>In early 1914, Fournier started work on a second novel – “Colombe Blanchet” - but it remained unfinished when he joined the Army as a Lieutenant in August 1914. Fournier was killed fighting near Vaux-lès-Palameix (Meuse) one month later, on 22nd September 1914. His body remained unidentified until 1991.</p><p>Alain-Fournier wrote the novel “Le Grand Meaulnes”, published in 1913, which I read at school. The book has been made into a film twice and is considered a classic of French literature. The story is partly based on his childhood unfolding in an atmosphere of mystical unreality beyond which the world of adulthood is perceived.</p><p>I remember when Alain-Fournier’s body was discovered and re-burried in the cemetery of Saint-Remy-la-Calonne, Meuse, Lorraine, France.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4xpSaVnm2wVSUtfYN3Kn5D80ZtWtAiSHgaEEJfLfUt3_TeF1OnepE-ktVUbHdt-FREDxbjGoP-JCBpb0i9yXfUcU2BQ-3q5bpikEr6-cGQ6yFO2e7mlEXsWhy9aEAsWEVg1JGgXIzGEnaWTEvd6GCRuP79i0DCKLxOQXFUn_-qerFn9DEF36XkH2iIs/s245/Alain-Fournier's%20memorial%20France.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="245" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4xpSaVnm2wVSUtfYN3Kn5D80ZtWtAiSHgaEEJfLfUt3_TeF1OnepE-ktVUbHdt-FREDxbjGoP-JCBpb0i9yXfUcU2BQ-3q5bpikEr6-cGQ6yFO2e7mlEXsWhy9aEAsWEVg1JGgXIzGEnaWTEvd6GCRuP79i0DCKLxOQXFUn_-qerFn9DEF36XkH2iIs/s1600/Alain-Fournier's%20memorial%20France.jpeg" width="245" /></a></div><p>http://tonyshaw3.blogspot.com/2019/03/alain-fournier-in-la-tranchee-de.html</p><p>You can read some of Fournier's poems here:</p><p>https://fortnightlyreview.co.uk/2014/02/poems-alain-fournier/</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-12666896457334244012023-09-29T06:22:00.002-07:002023-09-30T09:41:04.464-07:00 F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896 – 1940) – American poet, novelist, essayist, and short story writer. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ixmUD8CxJ6LXu9mM6c9EHvM6OH4vXhYlAUh7uaE_RAjDJuYAJVck4XzlFgEgzaq_hXPvFdo8ijvsQ9WKY_AQbP8TPPxbw7CONsTOVCMOcyLEaxuNZPNIarhsWZ2FSBOtkW_-1rRrpeYZqnsk8LvTKPVN1lzt6YeZM8N2FWsgHTSKW7uVL83NlA9w_wk/s296/F%20Scott%20Fitzgerald.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="170" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ixmUD8CxJ6LXu9mM6c9EHvM6OH4vXhYlAUh7uaE_RAjDJuYAJVck4XzlFgEgzaq_hXPvFdo8ijvsQ9WKY_AQbP8TPPxbw7CONsTOVCMOcyLEaxuNZPNIarhsWZ2FSBOtkW_-1rRrpeYZqnsk8LvTKPVN1lzt6YeZM8N2FWsgHTSKW7uVL83NlA9w_wk/s1600/F%20Scott%20Fitzgerald.jpeg" width="170" /></a></div><div><b><i>According to a very kind friend who proof read this post for me, he never used the name "Francis," but was known all his life as "Scott."</i></b></div><div><br /></div>Born Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald on 24th September 1896, into a middle-class family in Saint Paul, Minnesota, United States of America, Scott initially lived with his family in New York State. He went to Princeton University where he became friends with future literary critic Edmund Wilson. <p></p><p>Scott dropped out of university in 1917 and enlisted in the United States Army, receiving a commission as a Second Lieutenant. </p><p>While in training and waiting for deployment to the Western Front, Scott was stationed in a training camp at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas, under the command of Captain Dwight Eisenhower - future general of the Army and United States President. He didn’t like Eisenhower's authority and apparently disliked him intensely.</p><p>Hoping to have his work published, Scott wrote a 120,000-word manuscript entitled “The Romantic Egotist” completing it in three months. When he submitted the manuscript to Scribner's publishers however, they rejected it. The reviewer, Max Perkins, was impressed, praised his writing and encouraged Scott to resubmit it after revision.</p><p>In June 1918, Scott was garrisoned with the 45th and 67th Infantry Regiments at Camp Sheridan near Montgomery, Alabama. At a country club there, he met Zelda Sayre, a 17-year-old Southern belle and the grand-daughter of a wealthy Confederate senator, whose extended family owned the first White House of the Confederacy.</p><p>Before he wrote his first novel, Scott had hoped to publish a collection of his poems and may even have considered writing a novel in verse. For the rest of his life Scott wrote poetry, much of it humorous, which allowed him to indulge his love of rhyme.</p><p>After a long and industrious life, Scott died on 21st December 1940.</p><p>“WE LEAVE TO-NIGHT” by: F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)</p><p>We leave to-night . . .</p><p>Silent, we filled the still, deserted street,</p><p>A column of dim gray,</p><p>And ghosts rose startled at the muffled beat</p><p>Along the moonless way;</p><p>The shadowy shipyards echoed to the feet</p><p>That turned from night and day.</p><p> </p><p>And so we linger on the windless decks,</p><p>See on the spectre shore</p><p>Shades of a thousand days, poor gray-ribbed wrecks . . .</p><p>Oh, shall we then deplore</p><p>Those futile years!</p><p> </p><p>See how the sea is white!</p><p>The clouds have broken and the heavens burn</p><p>To hollow highways, paved with gravelled light</p><p>The churning of the waves about the stern</p><p>Rises to one voluminous nocturne,</p><p>… We leave to-night.</p><p><br /></p><p>"We Leave To-night" is reprinted from “This Side of Paradise” F. Scott Fitzgerald (Scribners, New York,1920).</p><p>Sources: BBC television’s Mastermind, Wikipedia and</p><p>https://www.poetry-archive.com/f/fitzgerald_f_scott.html</p><p>https://www.thoughtco.com/f-scott-fitzgerald-biography-4706514</p><p><br /></p>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-30312220904688076522023-08-19T05:22:00.000-07:002023-08-19T05:22:29.451-07:00 Francis Brett Young (1884 – 1954) – writer, poet, playwright, composer, doctor and soldier<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With thanks to Stanley Kaye (The Poppy Man)* for finding this poet for us and for sending</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>me the photograph he took of the Memorial to Francis in the British National Memorial Arboretum</i></b></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGGh9NknlmKwdVNrI22d5ZwmThU1wOMG2Eq12d-rbyHE4htqfHvQk3e_8x_jT2RB-ihU5Pw0iY5z9raM_u8GFZOg1xSdQZvNW5MjfHriSjJyg0fVSKeQ9RYC65VrTmbIf15i2tZMfpbIZgQU3igMBrYQXFtOOgPKjd8ajL_fEHOEk9J27WJ5cqyt9R_8/s253/Portrait%20of%20Francis%20Brett%20Young%20by%20unknown%20artist.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="199" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGGh9NknlmKwdVNrI22d5ZwmThU1wOMG2Eq12d-rbyHE4htqfHvQk3e_8x_jT2RB-ihU5Pw0iY5z9raM_u8GFZOg1xSdQZvNW5MjfHriSjJyg0fVSKeQ9RYC65VrTmbIf15i2tZMfpbIZgQU3igMBrYQXFtOOgPKjd8ajL_fEHOEk9J27WJ5cqyt9R_8/s1600/Portrait%20of%20Francis%20Brett%20Young%20by%20unknown%20artist.jpeg" width="199" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait - artist unknown</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Francis Brett Young was born in Halesowen, Dudley, Worcestershire, UK. His parents were Thomas Brett Young, a medical doctor, and his wife, Annie Elizabeth Young, nee Jackson, who were married in Leicester in 1883. Francis’s mother was also from a medical family.</p><p>Initially educated at a private preparatory school in Sutton Coldfield, Francis went on to Epsom College, a school for the sons of doctors. He then went to train as a doctor at the University of Birmingham. While there, Francis met his future wife – Jessie Hankinson - who was training at Anstey College of Physical Education. </p><p><br /></p><p>Francis began his medical career on the steamship SS Kintuck, on a voyage to the Far East, before taking on a practice in Devonshire in 1907. Francis and Jessie were married in Axbridge, Somerset, UK in 1908. His wife was a singer and he accompanied her as well as setting poems to music for her.</p><p>During the First World War, Francis served in the East African Campaign in German East Africa in the Royal Army Medical Corps as a medical officer with the 2nd Rhodesia Regiment. He was invalided out in 1918 and no longer able to practise medicine. Francis wrote about his WW1 experiences in his book entitled “Marching on Tanga” which was heavily censored before publication in 1917. The book is available to read as a free download on Archive:</p><p>https://archive.org/stream/dli.ernet.16384/16384-Marching%20On%20Tanga_djvu.txt </p><p>THE GIFT</p><p>Marching on Tanga, marching the parch'd plain</p><p>Of wavering spear-grass past Pangani River,</p><p>England came to me - me who had always ta'en</p><p>But never given before -- England, the giver,</p><p>In a vision of three poplar-trees that shiver</p><p>On still evenings of summer, after rain,</p><p>By Slapton Ley, where reed-beds start and quiver</p><p>When scarce a ripple moves the upland grain.</p><p>Then I thanked God that now I had suffered pain,</p><p>And, as the parch'd plain, thirst, and lain awake</p><p>Shivering all night through till cold daybreak:</p><p>In that I count these sufferings my gain</p><p>And her acknowledgment. Nay, more, would fain</p><p>Suffer as many more for her sweet sake.</p><p><br /></p><p>AFTER ACTION</p><p>All through that day of battle the broken sound</p><p>Of shattering Maxim fire made mad the wood;</p><p>So that the low trees shuddered where they stood,</p><p>And echoes bellowed in the bush around:</p><p>But when, at last the light of day was drowned,</p><p>That madness ceased.... Ah, God, but it was good!</p><p>There, in the reek of iodine and blood,</p><p>I flung me down upon the thorny ground.</p><p>So quiet was it, I might well have been lying</p><p>In a room I love, where the ivy cluster shakes</p><p>Its dew upon the lattice panes at even:</p><p>Where rusty ivory scatters from the dying</p><p>Jessamine blossom, and the musk-rose breaks</p><p>Her dusky bloom beneath a summer heaven.</p><p>From “Poems 1916 – 1918” by Francis Brett Young, (W. Collins Sons & Co, Ltd., London, 1919), which is available to read as a free download on Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/40344/40344-h/40344-h.html</p><p>Francis Brett Young’s WW1 poetry collections were:</p><p>“Five Degrees South (and other poems)”, (Martin Secker, 1917)</p><p>“The Island (poems)”, (Heinemann, London, 1944)</p><p>“Poems, 1916-1918” (Collins, 1919)</p><p>And he had poems published in nine WW1 Anthologies.</p><p>Sources: FreeBMD, Find my Past, </p><p>Catherine W. Reilly, “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 345 </p><p>https://allpoetry.com/Francis-Brett-Young</p><p>https://www.gutenberg.org/files/40344/40344-h/40344-h.html</p><p>https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw221799/Francis-Brett-Young</p><p>https://www.thenma.org.uk/</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6XdDJtIEFM4cK3P2RRJbZHNUyDCzhTDm4iOKXt-SXcZN7mkG3Fs-gg3S_JBtFZvxoT59A6JbY_jINHagDRR6ZZCLls2KmJ3NlZqDISl98YHRduSxKzrYvhtxtE7CHnaluUqvMVE6pGhm_-I9mG4jACMTk_d1aXmxcKb6IZ4DGKCASCHyRcgQS8a4_Bg/s4032/Major%20Francis%20Brett%20Young%20memorial%20National%20Arboretum%20photo%20by%20Stanley%20Kaye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF6XdDJtIEFM4cK3P2RRJbZHNUyDCzhTDm4iOKXt-SXcZN7mkG3Fs-gg3S_JBtFZvxoT59A6JbY_jINHagDRR6ZZCLls2KmJ3NlZqDISl98YHRduSxKzrYvhtxtE7CHnaluUqvMVE6pGhm_-I9mG4jACMTk_d1aXmxcKb6IZ4DGKCASCHyRcgQS8a4_Bg/s320/Major%20Francis%20Brett%20Young%20memorial%20National%20Arboretum%20photo%20by%20Stanley%20Kaye.jpg" width="144" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Stanley Kaye</td></tr></tbody></table><p>An arboretum (plural: arboreta) is a botanical collection composed exclusively of trees of a wide variety of different species. The British National Memorial Arboretum is situated in the centre of England on Croxall Road, Alrewas in Staffordshire. It is easy to reach and is close to all the Midlands motorways.</p><div>*Stanley Kaye (known as The Poppy Man because he encourages us to plant poppies in remembrance) has a Facebook Group -</div><p>* https://www.facebook.com/groups/rememberingworldwarone</p><p>The 4 Flowers of Remembrance:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvoX0DUJCJgcGGG4qWwcH3yLUrGT1tOLrGKlK50z2GoOcAxLaf2GQz72lznJj6NpV15EzwaNs6G3Us0gtf2z2_tWPcHB5Tf8wOyUovcVty05oX9FU_qFgWvqaEkPHanPaXr3U-g3YEUtP4_XlSyTcfQzAJDm2t9yGtFx8cFUPd8ZszeonUTmA503x3QE/s355/Flowers%20of%20Remembrance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="355" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvoX0DUJCJgcGGG4qWwcH3yLUrGT1tOLrGKlK50z2GoOcAxLaf2GQz72lznJj6NpV15EzwaNs6G3Us0gtf2z2_tWPcHB5Tf8wOyUovcVty05oX9FU_qFgWvqaEkPHanPaXr3U-g3YEUtP4_XlSyTcfQzAJDm2t9yGtFx8cFUPd8ZszeonUTmA503x3QE/s320/Flowers%20of%20Remembrance.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowers of Remembrance - Forget me Not<br />Poppy, Daisy and Cornflower</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>The Cornflower (Bleuet) is the remembrance flower of France,</p><p>The Daisy (Madeliefje/Marguerite) of Belgium, </p><p>The Red Flanders Poppy (Coquelicot) is universal but the idea of using the poppy as a symbol of remembrance comes from American Poet Moina Belle Michael’s vow always to wear a red poppy in remembrance+ and</p><p>The Forget-me-Not of Germany (Vergiss-mein-nicht) </p><p>Peter Van den Broeck tells us that The Forget-me-not is also the WW1 remembrance flower of the Armenian genocide ..... and for Newfoundland.</p><div>+ https://femalewarpoets.blogspot.com/2019/08/moina-belle-michael-1869-1944-american.html</div><p><br /></p>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-32924384323776567582023-08-14T05:16:00.006-07:002023-09-03T05:35:19.002-07:00 Albert Bertrand Purdie (1888 - 1976) – British writer, poet and Catholic Church Minister <p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With grateful thanks to Chris Warren* for contacting me to tell me about Albert Purdie and for sending me a copy of two marvellous WW1-related books he has published: “In Flanders Now: The War Poems of Father Albert Purdie 1915 - 1918” and “Somewhere in France: Letters written from the Front 1914 – 1918 by Jack Turner, MC, Croix de Guerre”.</i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><i><br /></i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQ2v7pSQs6jAJZozzN3Elu88gjk39pqhFs124D9PDrn2chXevVe_RLLwRr3FEAlwzWISXBRAjvac1V0bh6vPaXX3gGe67H7PtppAQYTgrzx8H5-tBAA4gyP5n-h31idTWczHWyLWKP8TNoFZsdN2AeI3N6xS4yRlCw6lX4JKReqfJDTKQo7YjRggLBYk/s2082/warren%20book%20photos%20-%20father%20albert%20purdie%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2082" data-original-width="1388" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIQ2v7pSQs6jAJZozzN3Elu88gjk39pqhFs124D9PDrn2chXevVe_RLLwRr3FEAlwzWISXBRAjvac1V0bh6vPaXX3gGe67H7PtppAQYTgrzx8H5-tBAA4gyP5n-h31idTWczHWyLWKP8TNoFZsdN2AeI3N6xS4yRlCw6lX4JKReqfJDTKQo7YjRggLBYk/s320/warren%20book%20photos%20-%20father%20albert%20purdie%20(1).jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Father Purdie<br />from Chris Warren's book</td></tr></tbody></table>Albert Bertrand Purdie was born in Kensington, London, UK in 1888, the birth being registered in December of that year. His parents were Arthur Purdie, and his wife, Wilhelmina Purdie, nee Kowertz, who was German. They were married in Marleybone, London in 1883. <p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">According to Chris Warren in the Introduction to his reprint of Purdie's poetry collection, Albert was educated at St. Edmund's College, Old Hall, Ware, Hertfordshire, UK and became a Catholic Church Minister. He was ordained in 1914. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">During the First World War, Father Albert volunteered to serve as a military chaplain. His service record states that Father Albert served as a 3rd Class Chaplain to the Army Chaplain Corps* - with the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry on the Western Front. Chris tells us in his introduction to the book of poems: “He went on to serve in Salonika and Constantinople and ended the war with an OBE for bravery.” </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">*The Royal Army Chaplains Corps was established in Britain in 1796 in order to provide religious and pastoral support to soldiers belonging to the Church of England. However, in 1836, following Catholic emancipation, the Department took on its first Roman Catholic clergy.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I wonder if Albert met Stanley Casson who also served in Salonika during WW1 and was also a poet? Casson wrote a book about his experiences during the First World War, which include an extremely interesting account of his time in Salonika. “Steady Drummer” by Stanley Casson (G. Bell & Sons Ltd., London, 1935).</p><p style="text-align: justify;">https://forgottenpoetsofww1.blogspot.com/2014/10/lieutenant-colonel-stanley-casson-1889.html </p><p style="text-align: justify;">In 1929, Father Albert was appointed Headmaster of St. Edmund's College, Ware, Hertfordshire – one of England's oldest Catholic schools. He died in Brighton, Sussex, UK on 30th May 1976. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">According to the entry for Purdie in Catherine Reilly’s book “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography”, Albert Perdie’s First World War collection of poems was entitled “Poems” and was published by Washbourne in 1918.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Chris Warren tells us that Albert served again during the Second World War, this time as Chaplain to an RAF camp in Bedfordshire. He retired to Goring-on-Sea, Sussex when he was sixty.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Extract from a letter home written in July 1915 by Chris’s Uncle Jack who was serving on the Western Front: “… we dropped in to see Father Purdie at his billet. I like him much: he is one of the best-read men I have come across – also tallk, with a clean boyish face and gold-rimme glasses. He is not more than 26: quotes Virgil, and is a personal friend of the Meynells and of the late Robert Hugh Benson.” Jack Turner was an artist and he went on: “He talks of writing something for me to illustrate. I have already drawn him a lovely Spahi (frun Tunis) smiling at one of the girls I know here: she was amusing him for me. He has also given me a jolly little “Garden of the Soul” (Lady Edmond Talbot’s gift to the Catholic soldiers) which is small but has all the offices in.”</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Other books by Father Albert Bertrand Purdie</p><p style="text-align: justify;">https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/classical-review/article/abs/latin-verse-inscriptions-albert-b-purdie-latin-verse-inscriptions-pp-203-london-christophers-1935-cloth-4s-6d/ECD8BD1053E2058808F8C5C4A5A16CD3</p><p style="text-align: justify;">https://www.amazon.com/Books-Albert-B-Purdie/s?rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_27%3AAlbert+B+Purdie</p><p style="text-align: justify;">“Ploegsteert Wood” a poem by Albert B. Purdie</p><p style="text-align: justify;">WHERE the wood catches the thrust</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of green slopes pricked with told,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And draws their gathered splendour</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Into its bosom. Where the fiery breath</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of summer suns is caught and silently</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Rebuked to sweetness, where long avenues</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of whispering trees tell secrets to the birds</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In England now:</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Where love meets love</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In some recess, where woodman’s axe</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Has made a clearing, and the ground</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Is woven flowers and moss – the trysting-place</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of all fair dreams of life,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In England now.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">* * * * * </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Where the dood dips to the line</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of trenches grey in fading light,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And draws the gathered dead</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Into its bosom. Where the fiery breath</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of angry war is slowly spent and stilled,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And nightingales sing songs of other days,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And poplars sigh old memories back again,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In Flanders now:</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Where life meets Death,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And dwells with her, where soldier’s axe</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Has made a clearing, and the ground</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Is trampled flowers and moss – the trysting-place</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Of all dark dreams of death,</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In Flanders now.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Ploegstreert, May, 1915. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">From “In Flanders Now: The War Poems of Father Albert Purdie 1915 - 1918” – with an introduction about Father Purdie written by Chris Warren - edited and published by Chris Warren.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Ploegsteert Wood was a sector of the Western Front in Flanders during the First World War. Part of the Ypres Salient, “Plugstreet Wood” (as British troops called it) is located around the Belgian village of Ploegsteert, Wallonia.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">After fierce fighting in late 1914 and early 1915, Ploegsteert Wood became a quiet sector where no major action took place. Units were sent here to recuperate and retrain after tough fighting elsewhere and before returning to take part in more active operations. From January to May 1916, Winston Churchill served in the area as Commanding Officer (Lieutenant-Colonel) of the 6th Battalion of the Royal Scots Fusiliers.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HJKauhESKgabkHd7PjvOGPU_ugUX9aYXGy4y9Ttj8v13wUhpdP0c03Hy7bIwrBPtIfNai-c4vwhb23NnONKF_gf2z7CUEoT6swg9zonUBZHZ3wnEyviK8-TQaIygYU-rK5yxlCgo7iGZy4OgmFBg_mQwUNmL9wyAezdErGqX-9NP5-ApaNIgP27291o/s277/Ploegsteert%20Wood%20WW1.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="277" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5HJKauhESKgabkHd7PjvOGPU_ugUX9aYXGy4y9Ttj8v13wUhpdP0c03Hy7bIwrBPtIfNai-c4vwhb23NnONKF_gf2z7CUEoT6swg9zonUBZHZ3wnEyviK8-TQaIygYU-rK5yxlCgo7iGZy4OgmFBg_mQwUNmL9wyAezdErGqX-9NP5-ApaNIgP27291o/s1600/Ploegsteert%20Wood%20WW1.jpeg" width="277" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ploegsteert Wood, WW1</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">There are numerous Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) cemeteries and memorials around the wood, including the Hyde Park Corner (Royal Berks) CWGC Cemetery and the Berks CWGC Cemetery Extension with the Ploegsteert Memorial to the Missing. The Ploegsteert Memorial commemorates more than 11,000 British and Empire servicemen who died during the First World War and have no known grave. It is one of several CWGC Memorials to the Missing along the Western Front. Those lost within the Ypres Salient without a known grave are commemorated at the Menin Gate and Tyne Cot Memorial to the Missing, while the missing of New Zealand and Newfoundland are honoured on separate memorials.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Another poem about Ploegsteert Wood – entitled “Vilanelle” - was written by WW1 VAD and writer Vera Brittain’s fiancé – Roland Leighton - who was also a poet: http://forgottenpoetsofww1.blogspot.com/2023/08/roland-aubrey-leighton-1895-1915.html</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Sources: Find my Past, Free BMD, messages from Chris Warren and his books - “In Flanders Now: The War Poems of Father Albert Purdie 1915 - 1918” and “Somewhere in France: Letters written from the Front 1914 – 1918 by Jack Turner, MC, Croix de Guerre”: </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Catherine W. Reilly "English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography" (St. Martin's Press, New York, 1978) - page 259 </p><p style="text-align: justify;">https://derbyshireterritorials.uk/tag/ploegsteert-wood/</p><p style="text-align: justify;">https://www.nam.ac.uk/explore/royal-army-chaplains-department</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoPPThhMxAt5sovvgUHrc4JO0GV_Q1y1nK5uJ1wy7p_eYuVQbf6cTjsYMiil-wXYBC_JwLpaEawuerPcsoHNrQCOyTBBDV8v56L41gQYDwCo1ydVVvQO4TEZw8XVdUTrqQvfBWJRUdjMNb0rttb3tpQzzjZ-HXBBr3Ce4Ji_TK24fteiCkNIVrPVWTGk/s3796/Warren%20books%20photo%20of%20covers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2904" data-original-width="3796" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLoPPThhMxAt5sovvgUHrc4JO0GV_Q1y1nK5uJ1wy7p_eYuVQbf6cTjsYMiil-wXYBC_JwLpaEawuerPcsoHNrQCOyTBBDV8v56L41gQYDwCo1ydVVvQO4TEZw8XVdUTrqQvfBWJRUdjMNb0rttb3tpQzzjZ-HXBBr3Ce4Ji_TK24fteiCkNIVrPVWTGk/s320/Warren%20books%20photo%20of%20covers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>Chris Warren’s wonderful books can be purchased by following these links:</div><div><br /></div><div>https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/11285382-in-flanders-now</div><div> </div><div>https://www.blurb.co.uk/b/9304624-somewhere-in-france</div><div><br /></div></div><br />Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-84303345932309475782023-08-13T05:30:00.000-07:002023-08-13T05:30:29.399-07:00 Roland Aubrey Leighton (1895 - 1915) – British soldier writer and poet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_bMdQTAhOTzPBA_jJnL4tmW-bojqnT0jVnuMZko2G9zsobkrN_OaM8dCdv1tImOwdu45aNSkG31QHqZl3WyMbPk-mbCGCS_gjvR7gqCTcVie2-bkSe-eC5JY4IrxJVqOAIErdpzMCkJA_ZW3xm-uT8NAywiPTZ6LV6iR-hRaX6lrkYD6MioLZfUPlqA/s300/Roland%20Leighton.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="247" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_bMdQTAhOTzPBA_jJnL4tmW-bojqnT0jVnuMZko2G9zsobkrN_OaM8dCdv1tImOwdu45aNSkG31QHqZl3WyMbPk-mbCGCS_gjvR7gqCTcVie2-bkSe-eC5JY4IrxJVqOAIErdpzMCkJA_ZW3xm-uT8NAywiPTZ6LV6iR-hRaX6lrkYD6MioLZfUPlqA/s1600/Roland%20Leighton.jpeg" width="247" /></a></div>Roland Aubrey Leighton was born in Marylebone, London, UK in 1895 - the birth being registered in June of that year. His parents were Robert Leighton, a writer of boys' adventure stories, and his wife, Marie Connor Leighton, nee Connor, also a writer, who were married in Maryletone in 1889.<p></p><p>Roland was educated at Uppingham School in Rutland, where he met Vera Brittain’s brother Edward Brittain. In 1913, Roland began courting Edward's sister, Vera and was awarded a scholarship to study at Merton College, Oxford University in 1914</p><p>Abandoning his studies, Roland volunteered for service in the Army when war broke out, joining the Worcestershire Regiment and was posted to the Western Front. </p><p>Roland and Vera became engaged on his first leave in August 1915. Roland wrote Vera letters from the Front, about British society, the war, the purpose of scholarship and aesthetics, as well as their relationship. She kept his letters in her diaries and mentioned them in later writings. Within his correspondence Roland also sent a number of poems.</p><p>On 23rd December 1915 Roland died of wounds in the Casualty Clearing Station at Louvencourt, France, having been shot through the stomach by a sniper while inspecting wire in the trenches at Hébuterne. He was 20 years old. He was buried in LOUVENCOURT MILITARY CEMETERY, France, Grave Reference: Plot 1. Row B. Grave 20. </p><p>Sue Robinson of the Group Wenches in Trenches visits Roland’s grave when she takes members of the Group to France. https://www.wenchesintrenches.org/</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVuh1VCnoyP8BVAisw_CkJ-Rgc8NCHAMqppe--jTLm91wlpoUxW5bVXlRJWukmmEwcx1cINXcZ2cvOfyemmQcTxU4r77QoC4bqpR8XpyJQwI7jJBixjvSeagng6ECdWuRPjBqw0aYk2ZesN5nbgrIlybLYa4DDyiiok9AjMG24GZaKGNDAVRG6Z_n2-U/s1440/Roland%20Leighton's%20grave,%20photo%20courtesy%20of%20Sue%20Robinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVuh1VCnoyP8BVAisw_CkJ-Rgc8NCHAMqppe--jTLm91wlpoUxW5bVXlRJWukmmEwcx1cINXcZ2cvOfyemmQcTxU4r77QoC4bqpR8XpyJQwI7jJBixjvSeagng6ECdWuRPjBqw0aYk2ZesN5nbgrIlybLYa4DDyiiok9AjMG24GZaKGNDAVRG6Z_n2-U/s320/Roland%20Leighton's%20grave,%20photo%20courtesy%20of%20Sue%20Robinson.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph of Roland's grave by<br />Sue Robinson </td></tr></tbody></table><p>'Villanelle' poem written by Roland Leighton to Vera Brittain </p><p>This poem is from The First World War Poetry Digital Archive, University of Oxford; © McMaster University, Mills Memorial Library, The William Ready Division of Archives and Research Collections</p><p>Violets from Plug Street Wood,<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVE9hK_yX7Oil_urSEeiphTpp-0chQGAsI4-hagI8qzb6LqNloAUGdlTyodEWpzSUPIYzp0EngA3BDZTohMISRO91AhVZLUB3nk2rDPNuBAYgPiH0jhMNExaUioFmq1Hhn5yi2wtZLBk5ebV_PqGLF_MkJ3dklAWLDC__bWEAGzdpk928jDfPYNYLgfK4/s2048/A%20loving%20kiss%20silk%20embroidered%20postcard%20with%20violets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1316" data-original-width="2048" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVE9hK_yX7Oil_urSEeiphTpp-0chQGAsI4-hagI8qzb6LqNloAUGdlTyodEWpzSUPIYzp0EngA3BDZTohMISRO91AhVZLUB3nk2rDPNuBAYgPiH0jhMNExaUioFmq1Hhn5yi2wtZLBk5ebV_PqGLF_MkJ3dklAWLDC__bWEAGzdpk928jDfPYNYLgfK4/s320/A%20loving%20kiss%20silk%20embroidered%20postcard%20with%20violets.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WW1 silk postcard</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>Sweet, I send you oversea.</p><p>(It is strange they should be blue,</p><p>Blue, when his soaked blood was red,</p><p>For they grew around his head:</p><p>It is strange they should be blue.)</p><p><br /></p><p>Think what they have meant to me - </p><p>Life and hope and Love and You</p><p>(and you did not see them grow</p><p>Where his mangled body lay</p><p>Hiding horrors from the day;</p><p>Sweetest, it was better so.)</p><p><br /></p><p>Violets from oversea,</p><p>To your dear, far, forgetting land</p><p>These I send in memory</p><p>Knowing you will understand.</p><p>Ploegsteert Wood was a sector of the Western Front in Flanders during the First World War. Part of the Ypres Salient, “Plugstreet Wood” (as British troops called it) is located around the Belgian village of Ploegsteert, Wallonia. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61eVYgJbEKMxqIUEnbhpoSUTX-3c_Tc5iRJgX8y9xrxBdow2YJc45PRreA-4Jgj9oMuJt-aCmGp5QflQcL3g5xkVasJQrzNpoC5XQOPwM1BEw_CiafQRu-CqBSM_7dbISrDciP8IcZNBVdl5cEyCBS3N8RdUvexYkrfboTsim1qQT76KxbjfQFvOUH5w/s277/Ploegsteert%20Wood%20WW1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="277" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61eVYgJbEKMxqIUEnbhpoSUTX-3c_Tc5iRJgX8y9xrxBdow2YJc45PRreA-4Jgj9oMuJt-aCmGp5QflQcL3g5xkVasJQrzNpoC5XQOPwM1BEw_CiafQRu-CqBSM_7dbISrDciP8IcZNBVdl5cEyCBS3N8RdUvexYkrfboTsim1qQT76KxbjfQFvOUH5w/s1600/Ploegsteert%20Wood%20WW1.jpeg" width="277" /></a></div><p></p><p>After fierce fighting in late 1914 and early 1915, Ploegsteert Wood became a quiet sector where no major action took place. Units were sent here to recuperate and retrain after tough fighting elsewhere and before returning to take part in more active operations. From January to May 1916, Winston Churchill served in the area as Commanding Officer (Lieutenant-Colonel) of the 6th Battalion of the Royal Scots Fusiliers.</p><p>There are numerous Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) cemeteries and memorials around the Wood, including the Hyde Park Corner (Royal Berks) CWGC Cemetery and the Berks CWGC Cemetery Extension with the Ploegsteert Memorial to the Missing. The Ploegsteert Memorial commemorates more than 11,000 British and Empire servicemen who died during the First World War and have no known grave. It is one of several CWGC Memorials to the Missing along the Western Front. Those lost within the Ypres Salient without a known grave are commemorated at the Menin Gate and Tyne Cot Memorial to the Missing, while the missing of New Zealand and Newfoundland are honoured on separate memorials.</p><p>Sources: Find my Past, Free BMD</p><p>https://derbyshireterritorials.uk/tag/ploegsteert-wood/</p><p><br /></p><p>R.A.L</p><p><br /></p><p>Hédauville, poem by Roland Leighton to Vera Brittain</p><p>The sunshine on the long white road</p><p>That ribboned down the hill,</p><p>The velvet clematis that clung</p><p>Around your window-sill</p><p>Are waiting for you still.</p><p><br /></p><p>Again the shadowed pool shall break</p><p>In dimples at your feet,</p><p>And when the thrush sings in your wood,</p><p>Unknowing you may meet</p><p>Another stranger, Sweet.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOnAlkGUpgVLkjBChYTLFuooA2LCT1G5bQyvjnEn16ihVc7cjL69COVnaEtVf4Tn2fJytYC3Tq6zjZD2zXBujeT6uja2wdHm8bdviR1dBwseM4H8O0SiNwzgWO9dHBTmtQSFLuQCeEUdNIvamXltHYbMBuE1ZUfpV7SJd7Q8iRifal6Iw3RDsLb6r7CY/s2535/passion%20flower%2019th%20dec%202015,%20Wirral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1907" data-original-width="2535" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMOnAlkGUpgVLkjBChYTLFuooA2LCT1G5bQyvjnEn16ihVc7cjL69COVnaEtVf4Tn2fJytYC3Tq6zjZD2zXBujeT6uja2wdHm8bdviR1dBwseM4H8O0SiNwzgWO9dHBTmtQSFLuQCeEUdNIvamXltHYbMBuE1ZUfpV7SJd7Q8iRifal6Iw3RDsLb6r7CY/s320/passion%20flower%2019th%20dec%202015,%20Wirral.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Passion flower (Passiflora) in bloom December<br />2015</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>And if he is not quite so old</p><p>As the boy you used to know,</p><p>And less proud, too, and worthier,</p><p>You may not let him go - </p><p>(And daisies are truer than passion-flowers)</p><p>It will be better so.</p><p>For more information: http://www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit/collections/leighton</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-33245705964719853912023-08-01T05:32:00.000-07:002023-08-01T05:32:03.170-07:00Alec Waugh (1898-1981) – British poet and writer <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4RWNnQZDBej6L1CrKsroMRmbSJHieTagwpu2CrbD2af_mZ4T_QyeKtRe7ciYf9GV43dr-9I8JNHZ7xdhaDwWX_f8Hqc9WEdAZofGGaKPBlzknW1i1rGf3Jnys55yf_03HpKfl6iMrR3q8Eg6kxXMHMC3q-rZzvFIRQcm9jjDEKqy7AO_e_3qHK1ZlHU/s259/Alec%20Waugh%20in%20WW1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4RWNnQZDBej6L1CrKsroMRmbSJHieTagwpu2CrbD2af_mZ4T_QyeKtRe7ciYf9GV43dr-9I8JNHZ7xdhaDwWX_f8Hqc9WEdAZofGGaKPBlzknW1i1rGf3Jnys55yf_03HpKfl6iMrR3q8Eg6kxXMHMC3q-rZzvFIRQcm9jjDEKqy7AO_e_3qHK1ZlHU/s1600/Alec%20Waugh%20in%20WW1.jpeg" width="194" /></a></div>Born on 9th May 1898, Alexander Raban Waugh (known as Alec) in Chelsea, London, United Kingdom, Alec’s parents were Arthur Waugh, an author and publisher’s reader, and his wife, Catherine Charlotte Waugh, nee Raban. Alec’s mother was a Great-granddaughter of Lord Cockburn. Alec was the elder brother of Evelyn Waugh who became a writer.<p></p><p>Lord Cockburn (1779 – 1854) was a Scottish lawyer, judge and literary figure. He served as Solicitor General for Scotland between 1830 and 1834.</p><p>Alec was educated at Sherborne School in Dorset before going on to the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. In 1914 Alec was awarded the English Verse Prize at Sherborne and one of his poems was accepted in August 1915 by the “Chronicle”. Commissioned into the Dorset Regiment in May 1917, Alec served as a machine gunner on the Western Front. He was a Lieutenant when he was captured by the Germans near Arras in March 1918. Alec spent the remainder of the war in Prisoner-of-War (PoW) camps in Karlsruhe and Mainz.</p><p>Alec Waugh’s WW1 poetry collection was “Resentment: poems” (Grant Richards, London, 1918) and he had poems published in four WW1 Anthologies.</p><p>"Cannon Fodder" September 1917 By Alec Waugh</p><p>Is it seven days you've been lying there</p><p>Out in the cold,</p><p>Feeling the damp, chill circlet of flesh</p><p>Loosen its hold</p><p>On muscles and sinews and bones,</p><p>Feeling them slip</p><p>One from the other to hang, limp on the stones?</p><p><br /></p><p>Seven days. The lice must be busy in your hair,</p><p>And by now the worms will have had their share</p><p>Of eyelid and lip.</p><p>Poor, lonely thing; is death really a sleep?</p><p>Or can you somewhere feel the vermin creep</p><p>Across your face</p><p>As you lie, rotting, uncared for in the unowned place,</p><p>That you fought so hard to keep</p><p>Blow after weakening blow.</p><p><br /></p><p>Well. You've got what you wanted, that spot is yours</p><p>No one can take it from you now.</p><p>But at home by the fire, their faces aglow</p><p>With talking of you,</p><p>They'll be sitting, the folk that you loved,</p><p>And they will not know.</p><p><br /></p><p>O Girl at the window combing your hair</p><p>Get back to your bed.</p><p>Your bright-limbed lover is lying out there</p><p>Dead.</p><p><br /></p><p>O mother, sewing by candlelight,</p><p>Put away that stuff.</p><p>The clammy fingers of earth are about his neck.</p><p>He is warm enough.</p><p><br /></p><p>Soon, like a snake in your honest home</p><p>The word will come.</p><p>And the light will suddenly go from it.</p><p>Day will be dumb. </p><p>And the heart in each aching breast</p><p>Will be cold and numb.</p><p><br /></p><p>O men, who had known his manhood and truth,</p><p>I had found him true.</p><p>O you, who had loved his laughter and youth,</p><p>I had loved it too.</p><p>O girl, who has lost the meaning of life,</p><p>I am lost as you.</p><p><br /></p><p>And yet there is one worse thing,</p><p>For all the pain at the heart and the eye blurred and dim,</p><p>This you are spared,</p><p>You have not seen what death has made of him.</p><p><br /></p><p>You have not seen the proud limbs mangled and</p><p>Broken,</p><p>The face of the lover sightless raw and red,</p><p>You have not seen the flock of vermin swarming</p><p>Over the newly dead.</p><p><br /></p><p>Slowly he'll rot in the place where no man dare go,</p><p>Silently over the night the stench of his carcase will flow,</p><p>Proudly the worms will be banqueting...</p><p>This you can never know.</p><p><br /></p><p>He will live in your dreams for ever as last you saw him.</p><p>Proud-eyed and clean, a man whom shame never knew,</p><p>Laughing, erect, with the strength of the wind in his manhood -</p><p>O broken-hearted mother, I envy you.</p><div><br /></div><div>And here is another of Alec's WW1 poems:</div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div>From Albert to Bapaume</div><div>Lonely and bare and desolate,</div><div>Stretches of muddy filtered green,</div><div>A silence half articulate</div><div>Of all that those dumb eyes have seen.</div><div><br /></div><div>A bettered trench, a tree with boughs</div><div>Smutted and black with smoke and fire,</div><div>A solitary ruined house,</div><div>A crumpled mass of rusty wire.</div><div><br /></div><div>And scarlet by each ragged fen</div><div>Long scattered ranks of poppies lay,</div><div>As though the blood of the dead men</div><div>Had not been wholly washed away.</div></div><div><br /></div><p>Alec Waugh’s book about his experience as a PoW is “The Prisoners of Mainz”, illustrated by British artist and fellow WW1 PoW R. T. Roussel (1883 – 1967). This is available on Gutenberg as an ebook https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/54203/pg54203-images.html</p><p>Sources, Find my Past, FreeBMD,</p><p>Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliogrphy” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 331. </p><p>https://allpoetry.com/From-Albert-to-Bapaume</p><p>https://warpoets.org.uk/worldwar1/blog/poem/from-albert-to-bapaume/</p><p>https://warpoets.org.uk/worldwar1/poets-and-poetry/alec-waugh/</p><p>https://collection.sciencemuseumgroup.org.uk/people/cp35838/raphael-t-roussel</p><p>Photo of Alec Waugh in WW1 from . </p><p>https://www.bridgemanimages.com/en/noartistknown/alec-waugh/nomedium/asset/3757947</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3ZseEQ-gBMoG0KDXhw5J5c4KrdH5dQAFAXwRXCNGglPp02uRgWeNGJRFo4juikZcGcUBt9NnZofXrSClBLwI6xM2WjTGqpY83SGzEU1G5tZkxKLGK5L2IQ0tISGIl-l-bo8fwc0LrxZWoHJNrhUeWySz8fwNyw9lnEa5IWkroeAGMDLymNFJwfCU5Hg/s407/Our%20Leading%20Lady%20from%20Alec%20Waugh%20book%20about%20Mainz%20POW%20Prison%20WW1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="228" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3ZseEQ-gBMoG0KDXhw5J5c4KrdH5dQAFAXwRXCNGglPp02uRgWeNGJRFo4juikZcGcUBt9NnZofXrSClBLwI6xM2WjTGqpY83SGzEU1G5tZkxKLGK5L2IQ0tISGIl-l-bo8fwc0LrxZWoHJNrhUeWySz8fwNyw9lnEa5IWkroeAGMDLymNFJwfCU5Hg/s320/Our%20Leading%20Lady%20from%20Alec%20Waugh%20book%20about%20Mainz%20POW%20Prison%20WW1.JPG" width="179" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Our Leading Lady" illustration by R.T. Roussel<br />from Alec's book about his PoW exerpeinces</td></tr></tbody></table><p>R.T. Roussel (1883 – 1967) - British artist who designed and constructed dioramas. He was the son of Theodore Roussel, a French painter and etcher</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-49181241748112529752023-07-31T06:18:00.004-07:002023-07-31T06:18:43.729-07:00Who wrote the poem entitled "My Bivouac" - with thanks to Historian Debbie Cameron for finding this<p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With thanks to Historian Debbie Cameron who sent me this information</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>and information about "My Bivouac" poem </i></b></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPM8saX7dA4SvGXTUS-RjG14JVPEo27wh7vOqCSQUTTNO49NDKML1zKziRhFwV2qcPfSaHBLkXZEQ51eg8JfPentx23L-L7bpGyA0Y7jpdlzGiGAmA1KT0SP7W3g8v2rqWCxF2gIYiACzTzOsUDM2KI5CQvCR0zfxSXSl0kQiLi_Zo__4xkEB_weyLdXI/s719/My%20Bivouac%20Mystery%20Poem%20in%20Penrith%20Newspaper.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="467" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPM8saX7dA4SvGXTUS-RjG14JVPEo27wh7vOqCSQUTTNO49NDKML1zKziRhFwV2qcPfSaHBLkXZEQ51eg8JfPentx23L-L7bpGyA0Y7jpdlzGiGAmA1KT0SP7W3g8v2rqWCxF2gIYiACzTzOsUDM2KI5CQvCR0zfxSXSl0kQiLi_Zo__4xkEB_weyLdXI/s320/My%20Bivouac%20Mystery%20Poem%20in%20Penrith%20Newspaper.JPG" width="208" /></a></div>Debbie says: "A poem entitled “My Bivouac” was published in a local paper in Penrith, Cumbria, UK (formerly in Cumberland) in March 1917. The paper states that the author, Isaac Hodgson from Penrith, was a Gunner in the Border Regiment, who was wounded twice.<p></p><p>Isaac Hodgson (1887 - 1918) – Gunner in the Border Regimen</p><p>Parents George and Elizabeth Hodgson. Sister Mary. On researching him, I discovered that Isaac went back to the trenches and sadly died almost a year to the day after the poem was published, on 27th August 1918. </p><p>His sister, Mary, was his next of kin and dependant, who as such received 13/- (thirteen shillings) a week for a year after his death. The epigraph of his Commonwealth War Grave Commission headstone that Mary had provided read “We little thought, when home on leave, he said his last goodbye”</p><p>Tragically, Isaac was only 24 when he died.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5It4io248I91db7YWpvIB3mPaWOrBjl6Pt1MswOBVof8WYu5rnQgF3GvzdtCFCMwfXA7PlIOv4LzXfdZY213yUcQPKaqQ_LOkLZYeAWwg1CwLmyQbQxFIBZ5toQnJRsumEhMJI1Du9i7nbkS1tozsgRR0TOeOM8UsfwVLzLr4_D_smKmQ7N8Gxs5HyY/s741/Letter%20to%20Penrith%20Newspaper%201918%20regarding%20Mystery%20Poem%20published%20previously.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="582" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5It4io248I91db7YWpvIB3mPaWOrBjl6Pt1MswOBVof8WYu5rnQgF3GvzdtCFCMwfXA7PlIOv4LzXfdZY213yUcQPKaqQ_LOkLZYeAWwg1CwLmyQbQxFIBZ5toQnJRsumEhMJI1Du9i7nbkS1tozsgRR0TOeOM8UsfwVLzLr4_D_smKmQ7N8Gxs5HyY/s320/Letter%20to%20Penrith%20Newspaper%201918%20regarding%20Mystery%20Poem%20published%20previously.JPG" width="251" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>However, on further research I discovered a mystery - the same poem was sent to the same local paper in Penrith – but a year later! This time it was attributed to a G. Rushforth of the same regiment. </p><p>I found this out because someone wrote into the paper pointing it out! </p><p>I discovered the second version of the poem was by George Rushforth (sometimes called Rushfirth) who was awarded the Military Medal in 1918. </p><p>As the editor of the paper said, we will never know which who the original poet was, although logically it might have been the man who sent it in first? "</p><p>Debbie Cameron, 22 July 2023 </p><p>George Rushforth, MM (sometimes called Rushfirth) ( - ) - Border Regiment</p><p>BUT The Mystery Deepens</p><p>Following Debbie’s message to me, I researched the poem and discovered it was also attributed to others. The Beds & Herts Saturday Telegraph: February 17th, 1917 -</p><p>Albert Carrinton ( - ) - </p><p>Pte Albert Carrington, serving with the Cheshire Regiment, described himself as "an old Luton milkman" when he sent a poem home to 2 South Road, Luton. About his dear old shanty bivouac in which he was living on the Western Front, Albert wrote:</p><p>"My Bivouac" </p><p>It's only some rags and canvas</p><p>Nailed to a blooming tree</p><p>There ain't no name on the fanlight</p><p>'Cos there ain't no fanlight, see!</p><p>It's a shanty knocked up quickly</p><p>With wire and bits of string;</p><p>It ain't no Buckingham Palace</p><p>And I don't feel a king.</p><p><br /></p><p>For my bed, an old torn oilsheet</p><p>One blanket to roll around.</p><p>Where the 'chats,' the ants, the beetles</p><p>Find a happy hunting ground.</p><p>It's a spring - no, not a mattress;</p><p>It's the mud on Flanders floor.</p><p>As for mud, we beats the Navy,</p><p>We Somme-timers get washed ashore.</p><p><br /></p><p> When the boys march past,oh, blimey!</p><p>'That takes it' you'll hear them say</p><p>But to me it's a dear old bivvy,</p><p>Where I write and sleep and pray.</p><p>There's holes in the roof from shrapnel</p><p>And in the sides as well.</p><p>Sometimes it's peace and quietude</p><p>More often it's perfect hell!</p><p><br /></p><p>I love my dear old bivvy</p><p>For the things it does contain;</p><p>Photos fixed on the canvas</p><p>Of those I hope to meet again.</p><p>On the floor there's fag ends lying,</p><p>To waste them would be a sin;</p><p>Tomorrow I'll have to smoke them</p><p>With the end of a blooming pin.</p><p> </p><p>Pte Carrington volunteered for Army service in August 1915 and, after being drafted to the Western Front, saw action at Arras, Bullecourt, Ypres, The Somme and Cambrai. He survived the war and was demobbed in December 1919 with the British War Medal and Victory Medal.</p><p><br /></p><p>[Beds & Herts Saturday Telegraph: February 17th, 1917]</p><p>http://www.worldwar1luton.com/blog-entry/ode-battlefield-bivouac</p><p><br /></p><p>And a version attributed to Thomas Conway </p><p>https://thepeoplespicture.com/thomas-conway/</p><p>Thomas Conway MM ( - ) - Company Sergeant Major 21671, 6th Bn, York and Lancaster Regiment. Son of Mr and Mrs S Conway of Artisan Street Sheffield.</p><p>https://www.wartimememoriesproject.com/greatwar/allied/battalion.php?pid=4988</p><p><br /></p><p>If anyone can help solve this mystery, please get in touch.</p><p>Thank you. Lucy London, 31st July 2023. </p><p><br /></p>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-34950371193949502992023-07-21T04:56:00.001-07:002023-07-26T10:08:16.039-07:00Wilhelm Runge (1894-1918) – German poet<p> </p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>With grateful thanks to Historian, Writer, Translator and Poet</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>AC Benus* for his help with this post, for his advice and his on-going support for this project</i></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_VnbA-gM0CbOCqSKzPml0kFUTUQWCbjM5fFUA7wU3ENwGfRU3bQQTVfCZTfel808RBNX0k9RqH-h5j6GqZu4L-JLQoAr-6EBs5lYwD2g2SBpAqDBAzZZyqjRbKLHhQf0OQ9XtK5BGQzHLpo34ZtrfnAbdV_QwtUUGBO1GOyVwlAtJS-LjPlSAi0hfB8/s372/runge_wilhelm.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="288" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_VnbA-gM0CbOCqSKzPml0kFUTUQWCbjM5fFUA7wU3ENwGfRU3bQQTVfCZTfel808RBNX0k9RqH-h5j6GqZu4L-JLQoAr-6EBs5lYwD2g2SBpAqDBAzZZyqjRbKLHhQf0OQ9XtK5BGQzHLpo34ZtrfnAbdV_QwtUUGBO1GOyVwlAtJS-LjPlSAi0hfB8/s320/runge_wilhelm.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br />Born on 13th June 1894, Wilhelm grew up in Silesia. He volunteered to serve in the German Army during the First World War and was sent to the Western Front. Wilhelm was wounded in November 1914. <p></p><p>Once recovered, Wilhelm returned to the Western Front and was killed on 22nd March 1918 fighting at Arras in France. </p><p>Wilhelm Runge’s collection of poetry was “Das Denken träumt : Gedichte” (Tr. "The Dreaming Mind" : Poems), which was published in 1918 around the time of his death. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Du bist ein reißender Strom</p><p>erwürgst alle Brücken</p><p>bist du nicht da</p><p>irrt meines Blutes Herde</p><p>hirtenlos</p><p>und nahst du</p><p>flieht es</p><p>ein geschlagen Heer</p><p>scheu senken meine Augen ihre Lanzen</p><p>Bin ein träumend Dorf</p><p>im Geheg der Sterne</p><p>deine Augen werfen Brand</p><p>in die Giebel</p><p>deiner Hände Siegespsalmen bet ich</p><p>in den wilden Tempeln</p><p>meines Munds</p><p>Sonne blühen deiner Stirne Alpen</p><p>nie lieg ich so selig</p><p>wie zu deiner Stimme Füßen</p><p>diesem uferlosen Mai</p><p><br /></p><p>Translations by AC Benus:</p><p>You’re a torrent able to</p><p>strangle all my bridges</p><p>for when you’re gone</p><p>my blood-herds roam shepherdless</p><p>aimlessly</p><p>but at your</p><p>approach</p><p>my eyes lower their spears</p><p>and flee like a timid army in defeat</p><p>I’m a dreaming town</p><p>where the corral of stars</p><p>thrown from your eyes goes up to</p><p>the high gables</p><p>your hands pitch for me to pray psalms</p><p>through the untamed temple</p><p>of my mouth</p><p>The sun blooms on your forehead while the Alps</p><p>have never lain so bliss-filled</p><p>as I do at your voice’s feet</p><p>on this lovely day in May</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Schrecken zäunt die spieligen Gedanken</p><p>Mondschein hätschelt seine wilde Nacht</p><p>zuckend blutet Welt vom Sims der Sterne</p><p>Seele hastet Herzen wimmre Wunden</p><p>wankend</p><p>tastet zager Sommertag</p><p>Translation:</p><p>Sheer terror bridles any playful thoughts </p><p>the moonlight may cradle through its wild nights</p><p>while twitching bleeds upon a ledge of stars</p><p>and the soul teeters hastily as wounds</p><p>are rocked</p><p>to palpate bleak summer days</p><p><br /></p><p>Seufzer bangt</p><p>des Auges voller Garten</p><p>steht in Regen</p><p>durch der Stirne Wüstensand</p><p>schleppt sich die Gedankenkarawane</p><p>sonnetaumelnd</p><p>durstentlang</p><p>alles Blut verdunkelt wolkenschwül</p><p>und der Hände scheue Tauben</p><p>ängsten</p><p>da springt auf der Seele wildes Tier</p><p>donnerheult</p><p>die Hölle seiner Schrecken</p><p>und zerstampft den Frieden in die Wildnis</p><p>die das Eiland seiner Stärke ist</p><p><br /></p><p>Translation </p><p>Sighing pops</p><p>in the full garden of eyes</p><p>erect in rain</p><p>upon desert sand ridges</p><p>hauling slow caravans of thought with them</p><p>getting sun-stroked</p><p>and thirsty</p><p>while along the way blood clouds darken</p><p>and the cowardly hands doves fear</p><p>worriedly</p><p>soon have wild beasts pouncing upon them</p><p>like thunder</p><p>be-howling the horrors of hell</p><p>which trample peace underfoot in the wilds</p><p>because it is their island of strength</p><p><br /></p><p>From “Das Denken träumt : Gedichte” (Tr. "The Dreaming Mind: Poems"),</p><p>Additional source:</p><p>http://www.deutsche-liebeslyrik.de/runge_wilhelm.htm</p><p><b>* AC Benus is the author of a book about German WW1 poet Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele : “The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations. ISBN: 978-1657220584</b></p><p><b>https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIExb_TAgoyHBy4NBleLGxbo53d6mqEgzp2TEAXJ8mATUOHtiu_jnsyrWoh3xCIWQT3sL1CDYG9KXG2RvapDCwhhcVqReN-BOvPtkS77V2OkZjKe9q-QKGDEQ9gpPRBFXYp8_qpD-gKcLr6I0Djd4fWd6a8STSBfeoFbnwMnB68eNdzt-miy57D7e1yCk/s3704/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3704" data-original-width="2433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIExb_TAgoyHBy4NBleLGxbo53d6mqEgzp2TEAXJ8mATUOHtiu_jnsyrWoh3xCIWQT3sL1CDYG9KXG2RvapDCwhhcVqReN-BOvPtkS77V2OkZjKe9q-QKGDEQ9gpPRBFXYp8_qpD-gKcLr6I0Djd4fWd6a8STSBfeoFbnwMnB68eNdzt-miy57D7e1yCk/s320/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-46439122523045776632023-06-28T09:58:00.004-07:002023-06-28T09:58:48.379-07:00 Richard Aldington (1892 – 1962) – British WW1 soldier poet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfionUHsiKc_w3h_XtDbFfzIUZ3xkLiCSDQSmv4RouDpfCg2s-WSqbuLD39G3a9zq9O3Wgfs1PPqpmMWhj1S5NPSuPHthkuelnP95rTap95wNGJ02eO6AkLrIQFehFq_E91CLDfadlbFer9SF01AU0D4SHK8DUcPW5V2bVjPBNcVZiOJSYk0oSrvzVnaM/s293/220px-(Edward_Godfree)_Richard_Aldington_by_Howard_Coster_10_x_8_inch_film_negative,_1931.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="220" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfionUHsiKc_w3h_XtDbFfzIUZ3xkLiCSDQSmv4RouDpfCg2s-WSqbuLD39G3a9zq9O3Wgfs1PPqpmMWhj1S5NPSuPHthkuelnP95rTap95wNGJ02eO6AkLrIQFehFq_E91CLDfadlbFer9SF01AU0D4SHK8DUcPW5V2bVjPBNcVZiOJSYk0oSrvzVnaM/s1600/220px-(Edward_Godfree)_Richard_Aldington_by_Howard_Coster_10_x_8_inch_film_negative,_1931.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>Richard was born on 8th July 1892 in Portsmouth, Hampshire, UK. Christened Edward Godfree Aldington, he was the eldest of four children. His parents were Albert Edward Aldington, a solicitor, and his wife Jessie May Aldington, nee Godfree. <p></p><p>Both Richard’s parents wrote and published books and in their home was a large collection of European and classical literature. As well as reading, Richard's interests included butterfly-collecting, hiking, and learning languages – French, Italian, Latin and ancient Greek.</p><p>Educated at Mr Sweetman's Seminary for Young Gentlemen, St Margaret's Bay, near Dover, Kent, UK, and Dover College, Richard went on to study at the University of London. Unable to complete his degree because of the strained financial circumstances of his family, Richard began work as a sports journalist and started submitting his poetry to British magazines. He gravitated towards literary circles of the era, meeting fellow poets William Butler Yeats and Walter de la Mare.</p><p>In Kensington, London, UK in 1913, Richard married the American poet Hilda Doolittle (known as H.D.). The marriage was registsered in December 1913. Although the couple were later divorced they remained friends for the rest of their lives.</p><p>Between 1914 and 1916, Richard was Literary Editor and a columnist for the magazine “The Egoist”. “The Egoist” (subtitled An Individualist Review) was a London-based literary magazine founded by British Suffragette Dora Marsden as a successor to her feminist magazine “The New Freewoman”. The title and content was changed under the influence of American poet Ezra Pound into a literary magazine. Published from 1914 to 1919 “The Egoist” published important early modernist poetry and fiction. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRH6au-8ddK9esMBBUdsFSNwAwh6RHtlJfRdjPw72GE24MXKlQymhCKebDy1mP8BFlg10vrfxqLkCSrTWor9RiIzl7UE7Rn6owWJIHxF0iDQDFOw9AcEYoe5CntglFRQSi1KX4PelbQnVWDi4tico0fEHu83cLmcPyHG24mZ-oEPHYrwu9UTlrag8Y-q0/s372/Richard%20Aldington%20WW1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="135" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRH6au-8ddK9esMBBUdsFSNwAwh6RHtlJfRdjPw72GE24MXKlQymhCKebDy1mP8BFlg10vrfxqLkCSrTWor9RiIzl7UE7Rn6owWJIHxF0iDQDFOw9AcEYoe5CntglFRQSi1KX4PelbQnVWDi4tico0fEHu83cLmcPyHG24mZ-oEPHYrwu9UTlrag8Y-q0/s320/Richard%20Aldington%20WW1.jpeg" width="116" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Richard, WW1</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Richard joined the British Army in June 1916 and was sent for training to Wareham in Dorset. He encouraged H.D. to return to America where she could make a safer and more stable home. </p><p>Initially joining the 11th Leicestershire Regiment, Richard was posted to the Western Front in December 1916. He wrote to H.D. telling her that he “managed to complete 12 poems and three essays since joining up and wanted to work on producing a new book, keeping his mind on literature, despite his work of digging graves”. He found the soldier's life degrading, living with lice, cold, mud and little sanitation. His encounters with gas on the front had a profound effect on him for the rest of his life. He was given leave in July 1917 and he and H.D. enjoyed a period of reunion. </p><p>Commissioned as a Second Lieutenant into the Royal Sussex Regiment in November 1917, Richard was gassed but finished the war as a Signals Officer and temporary Captain and was demobilised in February 1919.</p><p>After the war, Richard became a literary critic and biographer.</p><p>“Bombardment”</p><p>Four days the earth was rent and torn</p><p>By bursting steel,</p><p>The houses fell about us;</p><p>Three nights we dared not sleep,</p><p>Sweating, and listening for the imminent crash</p><p>Which meant our death.</p><p><br /></p><p>The fourth night every man,</p><p>Nerve-tortured, racked to exhaustion,</p><p>Slept, muttering and twitching,</p><p>While the shells crashed overhead.</p><p><br /></p><p>The fifth day there came a hush;</p><p>We left our holes</p><p>And looked above the wreckage of the earth</p><p>To where the white clouds moved in silent lines</p><p>Across the untroubled blue.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudc3eHpE8XU39Nhvva8ejPP0Glr_wRjPXGc173GckZChPSvyD2VYfZiLiDk4exHz3NLj2VZ9_SLeXyENZE7oHbGmyw0juqxWOe_efE8e1babvLViLyNYFpzIUPjJ8V__LBhReAqQx7W8_-Z0uVlfr3PHSb_vdJEmOLrPA38A3KB2lBMBb57-koEyLmo8/s680/Richard%20Aldington%20poem%20illustrated%20by%20Paul%20Nash%20found%20by%20Josie%20Holford.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjudc3eHpE8XU39Nhvva8ejPP0Glr_wRjPXGc173GckZChPSvyD2VYfZiLiDk4exHz3NLj2VZ9_SLeXyENZE7oHbGmyw0juqxWOe_efE8e1babvLViLyNYFpzIUPjJ8V__LBhReAqQx7W8_-Z0uVlfr3PHSb_vdJEmOLrPA38A3KB2lBMBb57-koEyLmo8/s320/Richard%20Aldington%20poem%20illustrated%20by%20Paul%20Nash%20found%20by%20Josie%20Holford.jpeg" width="282" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">Richard Aldington poem illustrated by Paul Nash (1889 - 1946)</div><div style="text-align: center;">found for us by Josie Holford</div><p>Richard Aldington’s WW1 poetry collections were: “Collected poems” (Covici Friede, New York, 1928; “The Eaten Heart” (Chapele-Reanvile, France, 1919) and“Images and other Poems” (The Egoist, 1919) and his poems were included in thirteen W1 poetry anthologies.</p><p>Richard died on 27th July 1962 in Sury-en-Vaux, Cher, France where he had lived from 1958</p><p>Richard Aldington is among the First World War poets listed on the memorial Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey. The inscription on the mmorial stone is a quotation from the work of a fellow Great War poet, Wilfred Owen. It reads: "My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity."</p><p>Sources: Find my Past, FreeBMD, Wikipedia and</p><p>Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Pres, New York, 1978) pp. 38 – 39.</p><p><br /></p>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-45657013984056302242023-06-27T06:50:00.004-07:002023-06-30T04:33:21.532-07:00 Otfried Krzyzanowski (1886 – 1918) – Austrian/German poet <p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Another WW1 poet found for us by AC Benus*</i></b></p><p>Born in Starnberg, Bavaria on 25th June 1886, Otfried Krzyzanowski’s parents were Heinrich Krzyzanowski (1855–1933), and his wife, Auguste née Tschuppik (1861–1909). Otfried's father, Heinrich, was a childhood friend of Austrian composers Hans Rott and Gustav Mahler.</p><p>The family moved to Vienna in 1897 and in 1907 Otfried went to study philosophy at the University of Vienna. </p><p>After the death of his mother in 1909, in 1910, Otfried left his studies and devoted himself to poetry and literature, living a free life, completely rejecting bourgeois customs and lifestyle. </p><p>"I've written and studied poetry, but I know very well that it's not work. The truth is, I don't do anything and doing nothing is a great nuisance. How few can stand it!” (“Against the Idlers”, 1918, quoted from “Collected Works” , p. 59).</p><p>From 1912, Otfried had some of his poems published in magazines.</p><p>Otfried died of starvation in Vienna on 30th November1918, during the chaos that followed the end of the First World War. The official cause of death given by the Vienna General Hospital was "emaciation" and "debility".</p><p>Here are three of the WW1 poems from Otfried's collection "Unser täglich Gift: Gedichte" - En. Tr. Our daily poison. poems. (Kurt Wolff Verlag, Leipzig, 1918) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj84bTE27LQxa4XF6BdG8d_syLLCdYIEJVVVPN1-fexwCHdzPzqghx8HCcO8IEolefW8CcclpQNyqXrnCi9rTxWDiz-g__L-EOm6eZtPEfKii7YO3tFKkEGRixsfnlZXNGh-rvnhMWQNEQm2l1Xr73PQHDApkJm16qGFbuHE_Swur7ATViltYyjO69U_o/s284/Cover%20of%20collection%20of%20poems%20by%20Ottfried%20Krzyzanowski.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="284" data-original-width="177" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj84bTE27LQxa4XF6BdG8d_syLLCdYIEJVVVPN1-fexwCHdzPzqghx8HCcO8IEolefW8CcclpQNyqXrnCi9rTxWDiz-g__L-EOm6eZtPEfKii7YO3tFKkEGRixsfnlZXNGh-rvnhMWQNEQm2l1Xr73PQHDApkJm16qGFbuHE_Swur7ATViltYyjO69U_o/s1600/Cover%20of%20collection%20of%20poems%20by%20Ottfried%20Krzyzanowski.jpeg" width="177" /></a></div><p></p><p>"ÄSTHETIK DES KRIEGS"</p><p>Nur der erschaut die schönen Berge wirklich,</p><p>Der keine Zeit hat, sie zu bewundern.</p><p>Die Soldaten im Süden, nicht die Touristen sehn</p><p>Die Dolomiten am besten.</p><p>Denn die Natur, ob sie schön oder grausam sei:</p><p>Für unsre leere Zeit ist sie nicht gemacht.</p><p>Und wirklich sieht den Krieg nur einer, der irgendwie</p><p>Keine Zeit für ihn hat.</p><p>Der Soldat vielleicht, wenn er daheim</p><p>Bei seinem Weibe ruht.</p><p><br /></p><p>"DER TRINKER AUF DEM SCHLACHTFELD"</p><p>Du! schläfst im fließenden Wein!</p><p>Du! rufst im Traum.</p><p>Hier, Tod, hat dein Spiel</p><p>Lichten freien Raum.</p><p>Resignation.</p><p>Du große Stille! Der Ruf nach Heldentum ist</p><p>Verzweiflung des Herzens. Und doch gibt es Männer.</p><p>Ihr leuchtenden Sterne! Der Ruf nach Schönheit ist nur</p><p>Verzweiflung der irren Sinne. Du große Stille!</p><p><br /></p><p>“Ballade”</p><p>Ein geschändeter Leichnam</p><p>Erschlagen im Walde.</p><p><br /></p><p>Seinen Feinden wehe zu tun</p><p>Hat keiner verstanden wie er.</p><p><br /></p><p>Nacht war’s und einsam der Weg,</p><p>Da horcht er: Sie lauern ihm auf.</p><p><br /></p><p>Narrheit ist Betteln, ist Angst,</p><p>Verlangt es die Wölfe nach Blut.</p><p><br /></p><p>Tauch auf! Es enttauchte der Furcht</p><p>Seine Seele und lachte der Kälte.</p><p><br /></p><p>Enttaucht! Wie lüsternen Grimms</p><p>Er nach seinem Dolche griff –</p><p><br /></p><p>Ein geschändeter Leichnam</p><p>Erschlagen im Walde.</p><div><br /></div><p><b> AC Benus has very kindly translated these poems for us:</b></p><p>“War’s Aesthetic”</p><p>He with no time to admire them</p><p>Honestly sees the beauty of mountains.</p><p>The soldiers in the South, and not the blasted tourists,</p><p>Can view the Dolomites the best.</p><p>For Nature, whether it be cruel or beautiful,</p><p>Was not created for our empty hours.</p><p>Likewise, those with only time to reflect, see the war </p><p>When they’ve no time for it.</p><p>The soldier, perhaps, who is at home</p><p>On leave with his sweetheart.</p><p><br /></p><p>“The Drinker on the Fields of Slaughter”</p><p>You! Asleep in the flowing wine.</p><p>You! Scream in dreams.</p><p>There, Death, toys with you</p><p>In free and easy space.</p><p>It’s in resignation.</p><p>The powerful quiet. Heroism’s call is</p><p>The desperation of hearts. And yet men remain.</p><p>You light-emitting stars! The mere call of beauty is</p><p>Desperation to crazed senses. You powerful quiet.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Ballad”</p><p>A mutilated human body</p><p>Struck dead in the woods.</p><p><br /></p><p>Nobody understood like he</p><p>How to hurt his enemies.</p><p><br /></p><p>t was night; the way, lonely,</p><p>Then he hears: they’re waiting for him.</p><p><br /></p><p>Begging is foolish, just like angst,</p><p>For wolves crave only blood.</p><p><br /></p><p> Dive in! His soul bails for fear</p><p>And now laughs at the cold.</p><p><br /></p><p>Bailed out! How with passionate fury</p><p>He grabbed for the dagger –</p><p><br /></p><p>A mutilated human body</p><p>Struck dead in the woods.</p><div><br /></div><div>https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/52183/pg52183-images.html</div><p><b>* AC Benus</b> is the author of a book about German WW1 poet Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele : “The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations. ISBN: 978-1657220584 </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBX73Rz-GeHl80WwYzVDFiva1RarfNpMa7aJzRjb_J1_sdj5e9agH_Rdjpfj5arRhWWqTDtVAoU3b_v4sI9DFhs0p6qwa-DUiZpfnMqwYwFim1Mqrjzy7Kl6-T39NmyXkcvTSctReX75lIRK2mrB8yes-aMIesvLP_BRSdlw_z1_RGBju8ZfRAGNpNqY/s3704/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3704" data-original-width="2433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvBX73Rz-GeHl80WwYzVDFiva1RarfNpMa7aJzRjb_J1_sdj5e9agH_Rdjpfj5arRhWWqTDtVAoU3b_v4sI9DFhs0p6qwa-DUiZpfnMqwYwFim1Mqrjzy7Kl6-T39NmyXkcvTSctReX75lIRK2mrB8yes-aMIesvLP_BRSdlw_z1_RGBju8ZfRAGNpNqY/s320/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><p></p><p>https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-20778571428747731302023-06-25T06:43:00.006-07:002023-06-25T06:43:58.132-07:00 John Buchan, Lord Tweedsmuir (1875 – 1940) – writer, poet, historian<p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>I only recently realised that John Buchan - one of my favourite writers - had also written poetry and deserves to be remembered here</i></b></p></blockquote><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTrjzb0KvnN2zwcHK2fD6ltGFU6kJzrLjXptcx0Anz12P5-nVDsa8lwEqN1YB0gJ_OPRSg3e00t8XiGVutTpzBXaOmFbS0cOMb_vpq_VFsTbtUiZIw_DQdHtS3IrzoY2T3pW8w4iwr_8pXy05g3lRv2bk7s9egjrTkxKzHdMPPro79O_Nt0i08lJ7h8o/s256/John%20Buchan%20during%20WW1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="197" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTrjzb0KvnN2zwcHK2fD6ltGFU6kJzrLjXptcx0Anz12P5-nVDsa8lwEqN1YB0gJ_OPRSg3e00t8XiGVutTpzBXaOmFbS0cOMb_vpq_VFsTbtUiZIw_DQdHtS3IrzoY2T3pW8w4iwr_8pXy05g3lRv2bk7s9egjrTkxKzHdMPPro79O_Nt0i08lJ7h8o/s1600/John%20Buchan%20during%20WW1.jpeg" width="197" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joh Buchan, WW1</td></tr></tbody></table>Born in Perth, Scotland on 26th August 1875, John’s parents were John Buchan, a Free Church of Scotland Minister, and his wife Helen. John junior was the eldest child and had three brothers - William, Walter and Alastair - and a sister, Anna. Anna Masterton Buchan (24 March 1877 – 24 November 1948) also became a writer and used the pen name O. Douglas. </p><p>John grew up in Fife, attending schools in Kirkcaldy. Then in 1888, the family moved to Glasgow, where John’s father was called to serve at the John Knox Church in the Gorbals. After attending Hutcheson's Boys Grammar School, John went on to study Classics at the University of Glasgow in 1892.. In 1895, John won a scholarship to study at Brasenose College, Oxford University, where he met and befriended Thomas Arthur Nelson, grandson of the founer of the Edinburgh publishers. </p><p>John married Susan Charlotte Grosvenor in 1907 and the couple had four children. </p><p>By the time the First World War began, John’s career continued to be pulled in two directions - the political and the literary. He worked for the publishers Nelsons, in Edinburgh. John fully understood the importance of positive propaganda to the war effort and, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel, from 1915, he worked as a war correspondent for “The Times” and “The Daily News” newspapers, sending optimistic reports from the Western Front in France. He became Director of Information at the Foreign Office’s Department of Information (1917-1918) and, for a brief time, Director of Intelligence. He continued to write novels and poetry – “Greenmantle” and “The Thirty-Nine Steps” were written at that time. </p><p>Though more famous as a novelist than a poet, the war inspired John to write and publish "Poems, Scots and English" in 1917, a volume that included verse in Scots vernacular. </p><p>“POEMS SCOTS AND ENGLISH” BY JOHN BUCHAN ( Thomas Nelson & Sons Ltd., London, Edinburgh & New York 1917) Dedication:</p><p>TO MY BROTHER ALASTAIR BUCHAN, LIEUTENANT, ROYAL SCOTS FUSILIERS WHO FELL AT ARRAS ON EASTER MONDAY 1917 </p><p>John’s brother, Alastair Ebenezer Buchan (b. 1895), a Lieutenant in the Royal Scots Fusiliers, was killed fighting in the First World War at the Battle of Arras on Easter Monday, 9th April 1917 – the same day and during the same Battle that John’s friend Thomas Arthur Nelson was killed. Alastair Buchan was buried in Duisans British Cemetery, Etrun, France, Grave Reference: I. N. 14.</p><p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsJrYcscJ4Y24uKywDhUfXL6J4MKUplM1iAqp49MywPVspBBxs91rIiz8oS1wpsqbtq9lAsavuki4iCHSK9bbftQe6vyukjpcoc2ZIybvvOkcg2ehXaqe0R2NuchS2-G0hpBwagbqmOULuOjbVmMI6yJxbqdWjgmzDELRuD1boCqgIwISPH4bvHJ9XmI/s960/John%20Buchan's%20Mother%20Helen%20visiting%20the%20grave%20of%20his%20brother%20at%20Duisans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="443" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsJrYcscJ4Y24uKywDhUfXL6J4MKUplM1iAqp49MywPVspBBxs91rIiz8oS1wpsqbtq9lAsavuki4iCHSK9bbftQe6vyukjpcoc2ZIybvvOkcg2ehXaqe0R2NuchS2-G0hpBwagbqmOULuOjbVmMI6yJxbqdWjgmzDELRuD1boCqgIwISPH4bvHJ9XmI/s320/John%20Buchan's%20Mother%20Helen%20visiting%20the%20grave%20of%20his%20brother%20at%20Duisans.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John's Mother, Helen, visiting<br />the grave of Alastair Buchan in <br />Duisans, France</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>“On Leave” pp. 55 – 58 </p><p>I HAD auchteen months o' the war, </p><p>Steel and pouther and reek, </p><p>Fitsore, weary and wauf, — </p><p>Syne I got hame for a week. </p><p><br /></p><p>Daft -like I entered the toun, </p><p>I scarcely kenned for my ain. </p><p>I sleep! t twae days in my bed, </p><p>The third I buried my wean. </p><p><br /></p><p>The wife sat greetin' at hame, </p><p>While I wandered oot to the hill, </p><p>My hert as cauld as a stane, </p><p>But my heid gaun roond like a mill. </p><p><br /></p><p>I wasna the man I had been, — </p><p>Juist a gangrel dozin' in fits ; — </p><p>The pin had faun oot o' the warld, </p><p>And I doddered amang the bits. </p><p><br /></p><p>I clamb to the Lammerlaw </p><p>And sat me doun on the cairn ; — </p><p>The best o' my freends were deid, </p><p>And noo I had buried my bairn ; — </p><p><br /></p><p>The stink o' the gas in my nose, </p><p>The colour o' bluid in my ee, </p><p>And the biddin' o' Hell in my lug </p><p>To curse my Maker and dee. </p><p><br /></p><p>But up in that gloamin' hour, </p><p>On the heather and thymy sod, </p><p>Wi' the sun gaun doun in the Wast </p><p>I made my peace wi' God. . . . </p><p>• • • • • </p><p>I saw a thoosand hills, </p><p>Green and gowd i' the licht, </p><p>Roond and backit like sheep, </p><p>Huddle into the nicht. </p><p><br /></p><p>But I kenned they werena hills, </p><p>But the same as the mounds ye see </p><p>Doun by the back o' the line </p><p>Whaur they bury oor lads that dee. </p><p><br /></p><p>They were juist the same as at Loos </p><p>Whaur we happit Andra and Dave.- </p><p>There was naething in life but death, </p><p>And a' the warld was a grave. </p><p><br /></p><p>A' the hills were graves. </p><p>The graves o' the deid langsyne, </p><p>And somewhere oot in the Wast </p><p>Was the grummlin' battle-line. </p><p><br /></p><p>• • • • •</p><p><br /></p><p>But up frae the howe o' the glen </p><p>Came the waft o' the simmer een. </p><p>The stink gaed oot o my nose, </p><p>And I sniffed it, caller and clean. </p><p><br /></p><p>The smell o' the simmer hills. </p><p>Thyme and hinny and heather, </p><p>Jeniper, birk and fern. </p><p>Rose in the lown June weather. </p><p><br /></p><p>It minded me o' auld days, </p><p>When I wandered barefit there, </p><p>GuddHn' troot in the burns, </p><p>Howkin' the tod frae his lair. </p><p><br /></p><p>If a' the hills were graves </p><p>There was peace for the folk aneath </p><p>And peace for the folk abune. </p><p>And life in the hert o' death. . . . </p><p><br /></p><p>• • • • • </p><p><br /></p><p>Up frae the howe o' the glen </p><p>Cam the murmur o' wells that creep </p><p>To swell the heids o' the burns. </p><p>And the kindly voices o' sheep. </p><p><br /></p><p>And the cry o' a whaup on the wing, </p><p>And a plover seekin' its bield. — </p><p>And oot o' my crazy lugs </p><p>Went the din o' the battlefield. </p><p><br /></p><p>I flang me doun on my knees </p><p>And I prayed as my hert wad break. </p><p>And I got my answer sune, </p><p>For oot o' the nicht God spake. </p><p><br /></p><p>As a man that wauks frae a stound </p><p>And kens but a single thocht, </p><p>Oot o' the wind and the nicht </p><p>I got the peace that I socht. </p><p><br /></p><p>Loos and the Lammerlaw, </p><p>The battle was feucht in baith. </p><p>Death was roond and abune, </p><p>But Hfe in the hert o' death. </p><p><br /></p><p>A' the warld was a grave, </p><p>But the grass on the graves was green, </p><p>And the stanes were bields for hames, </p><p>And the laddies played atween. </p><p><br /></p><p>KneeHn' aside the cairn </p><p>On the heather and thymy sod, </p><p>The place I had kenned as a bairn, </p><p>I made my peace wi' God. </p><p>1916</p><p><br /></p><p>John Buchan died on 12th February, 1940.</p><p><br /></p><p>https://archive.org/details/poemsscotsenglis00buch/page/54/mode/2up</p><p><br /></p><p>According to Catherine W. Reilly, John Buchan’s WW1 poetry collection were:</p><p>“Meditations of a country chiel: a collection of verse” (Edinburgh, Bishop, 1918)</p><p><br /></p><p>“Poems: Scots and English” (Jack, 1917)</p><p><br /></p><p>“Poems: Scots and English” (new edition – Nelson, Edinburgh, 1936) </p><p><br /></p><p>He also had a poem or poems published in 2 WW1 anthologies:</p><p><br /></p><p>“Northern Numbers: representative selections from certain living Scottish poets (Foulis, 1920)</p><p><br /></p><p>William Robb, Comp. “A book of twentieth-century Scots verse. (Gowans & Gray, 1925). All in Scots dialect. </p><p><br /></p><p>Sources: Find my Past, FreeBMD, Wikipedia,</p><p>Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) pp. 22, 25 and 73</p><p>https://www.jstor.org/stable/26070692</p><p>https://archive.org/details/poemsscotsenglis00buch</p><p>https://livesofthefirstworldwar.iwm.org.uk/story/23343</p><p>https://www.peeblesshirenews.com/news/17199203.april-9-1917---day-will-forever-haunt-buchan-family/</p><p>https://www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/casualty-details/168887/alastair-ebenezer-buchan/</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-29147625369195638612023-06-24T10:24:00.000-07:002023-06-24T10:24:02.944-07:00Willard A. Wattles (1888-1950) – poet and educator<p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Another WW1 poet found for us through the wonderful research of poet and writer AC Benus*</i></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FCcvo03ZjeYr3xuIGLMlQCKcJFWHlXVLVluGeCGpjjnOrz87SjDFQKn9QCSJE-SbhHo9a7N3A26pLO_6J-KM1xnJMOfoR0ipg_paQCQOhyXkWQwfThYaESQp2FtyR4Th2HIaKGdt9FYRs3wBSr4aKyb3CL_Zp8QnQfA2YpouraoNvZ4hfe68HJbO7HA/s274/Willard%20Wattles.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="184" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FCcvo03ZjeYr3xuIGLMlQCKcJFWHlXVLVluGeCGpjjnOrz87SjDFQKn9QCSJE-SbhHo9a7N3A26pLO_6J-KM1xnJMOfoR0ipg_paQCQOhyXkWQwfThYaESQp2FtyR4Th2HIaKGdt9FYRs3wBSr4aKyb3CL_Zp8QnQfA2YpouraoNvZ4hfe68HJbO7HA/s1600/Willard%20Wattles.jpeg" width="184" /></a></div>Born on 8th June 1888, in Baynesville, Kansas, USA, Willard’s parents were Harvey Austin Wattles, a farmer and lumber dealer, and his wife, Jennie Fay Wattles.<p></p><p>Willard studied at the University of Kansas, graduating in 1909. He began teaching at a high school in Leavenworth, Texas, before returning to Kansas University for a further two years, completing a fellowship and Master’s degree in 1911. He then taught English Literature at Leavenworth High School, the University of Massachusetts, and the University of Kansas.</p><p>After completing his undergraduate studies at the University of Kansas in 1909, Willard began his teaching career as an English teacher at a high school in Leavenworth, Texas. He returned to Kansas University for another two years, completing a fellowship and Master’s degree by 1911. Willard spent the next nine years in academia, instructing students in English at Leavenworth High School, the University of Massachusetts, and the University of Kansas. </p><p>After graduating from Princeton in 1921, Willard moved to Connecticut and then Oregon, where he continued to teach and pursue his love for poetry. Willard became widely recognized, not only for his teaching background, but also for several books and for his poems, some of which were published in “The Independent”. </p><p>On 25th June 1925, Willard married Mary Brownlee (1889 – 1989).</p><p>Hamilton Holt, editor of “The Independent” and president of Rollins College, was so impressed by Willard's work that he requested Willard Wattles’ presence at Rollins. In 1927, Willard joined the faculty, bringing the “qualities of heart and mind that made him greatly beloved by the students.” </p><p>Willard Wattles died on 25th September 1950. The Omnipotent Order of Osceola presented his widow, Mary Wattles, with a plaque, inscribed, “to our teacher and friend, Willard Austin Wattles…we walk together when we are apart, our eyes have met and what we saw, no man shall know, nor forget.”</p><p>During the First World War, it is likely that Willard served in some capacity – possibly teaching - in the US Army, because the Introduction he wrote to his volume “Lanterns in Gethsemane; a series of Biblical and mystical poems in regard to the Christ in the present crisis” (E.P. Dutton & Company, 1918) was dated “18th September 1918 at Camp Funston.” </p><p>Willard Wattles died on 25th September 1950. The Omnipotent Order of Osceola presented his widow, Mary Wattles with a plaque, inscribed, “to our teacher and friend, Willard Austin Wattles…we walk together when we are apart, our eyes have met and what we saw, no man shall know, nor forget.”</p><p><br /></p><p>“To Robert Westman dead in battle”</p><p>I was his teacher on a time</p><p>Some happy seasons back,</p><p>Guiding his hand and mind to trace</p><p>That knowledge which youths lack.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now dead in France, his tenderness</p><p>Enfolds me as the sea,</p><p>Now I am like a little child</p><p>In wonder at his knee.</p><p><br /></p><p>“Bobbie I love you” is all my heart can say</p><p>No matter where I wake at night or wander in bright day.</p><p><br /></p><p>No word of mine could every say</p><p>One half of what is true</p><p>No reticence is graver than</p><p>The poem that is you.</p><p><br /></p><p>Willard Wattles. </p><p>From the anthology "Men and Boys", Edited by Edward Mark Slocum (New York, 1924), p. 79.</p><p><br /></p><p>Collections published by Willard Wattles:</p><p>The Funstan double track : and other verses (N. A. Crawford, 1919) </p><p>The Funston double track (N. A. Crawford, 1919) </p><p>Lanterns in Gethsemane; a series of Biblical and mystical poems in regard to the Christ in the present crisis (E.P. Dutton & Company, 1918) </p><p>Sunflowers, a book of Kansas poems (A. C. McClurg & co., 1916) </p><p>NOTES: Camp Funston is a U.S. Army training camp located on Fort Riley, southwest of Manhattan, Kansas. The camp was named in memory of Brigadier General Frederick Funston (1865–1917). It is one of sixteen such camps established in the USA at the outbreak of The First World War.</p><p>Construction beganat Camp Funston during the summer of 1917 and eventually encompassed approximately 1,400 buildings on 2,000 acres (8.1 km2). The Camp Funston Garrison was administered by the 164th Depot Brigade, commanders of which included George King Hunter. Depot brigades were responsible for receiving, housing, equipping, and training enlistees and draftees, and for demobilizing them after the war.</p><p>Two divisions commanded by Major General Leonard Wood, totaling nearly 50,000 recruits, trained at Camp Funston. Notable units who received training at Camp Funston include the 89th Division, which was deployed to France in the spring of 1918, the 10th Division and black soldiers assigned to the 92nd Division.</p><p>During the First World War, Camp Funston also served as a detention camp for conscientious objectors (COs) many of whom were there due to religious convictions. </p><p>In March 1918, some of the first recorded American cases of what came to be the worldwide influenza pandemic, also known as "Spanish flu", were reported at Camp Funston.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtma1cj1KBwQJOLEBBkcW1-mrvhSXq_gWXAcLLbgtmFFiTR7J31Ovn4r2yjmf2eBQZOPG0-uMaCMH--Ft4zMJZHR1C1BS1LA_DFLzOICEt3zyIxbJEAPBe63uiHmrvBNVvIUROBOOKXcWLaBhFeUghw0zy-P1Jww-ci7-gZ6K81yrx_ixD1Rs18FNYVTk/s600/Camp%20Funston%20WW1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="600" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtma1cj1KBwQJOLEBBkcW1-mrvhSXq_gWXAcLLbgtmFFiTR7J31Ovn4r2yjmf2eBQZOPG0-uMaCMH--Ft4zMJZHR1C1BS1LA_DFLzOICEt3zyIxbJEAPBe63uiHmrvBNVvIUROBOOKXcWLaBhFeUghw0zy-P1Jww-ci7-gZ6K81yrx_ixD1Rs18FNYVTk/s320/Camp%20Funston%20WW1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Photograph - Camp Funston WW1 - Soldiers Sending Civilian Clothes Back Home -- This picture postcard is one of the few items of evidence showing the presence of the American Express Company at military camps during the First World War. In this case, the soldiers are posing in front of the American Express building near the railway at Camp Funston, Kansas. They are sending their civilian clothes back home, after being issued with their uniforms. Both American Express and the Railway Express companies provided services to the soldiers during WW1, along with the U.S. Post Office.</p><p>The Anthology "Men and Boys", Edited by Edward Mark Slocum (New York, 1924) 150 copies of the original book were printed privately. The reprint is: “Men and Boys: An Anthology [Timothy d'Arch Smith / Donald H. Mader, Commentators) (The Coltsfoot Press, New York 1978).</p><p>Sources: </p><p>https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583</p><p>https://www.amazon.com/dp/1657220583</p><p>http://swansongrp.com/wwi.html</p><p>https://omeka.wppl.librarymarket.com/exhibits/show/histbioref/mary-wattles</p><p>https://lib.rollins.edu/olin/oldsite/archives/golden/Wattles.htm</p><p>https://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/book/lookupname?key=Wattles%2C%20Willard%20Austin%2C%201888%2D1950</p><p><br /></p><p><b>* AC BENUS</b></p><p>AC Benus is the author of a book about German WW1 poet Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele : “The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations. ISBN: 978-1657220584</p><p>To purchase a copy please see: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2WtGx27Nl4ilA2lvGOOBxpEXvTl4VY0bxoCW-HXAqifF5ZVtncMnfmdJpq6DDTLmIHMRK0nfqZcpo-ulXhctlRvwYlHQJwuP0ozQckMa6fjOdH6hwmbQPBWzyuo-YRxlgl0LnCI_QK30DPnxJXJsrmJej3FsKJmfSdp-pxIROI_rQNYj63YLKnddIJhs/s3704/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3704" data-original-width="2433" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2WtGx27Nl4ilA2lvGOOBxpEXvTl4VY0bxoCW-HXAqifF5ZVtncMnfmdJpq6DDTLmIHMRK0nfqZcpo-ulXhctlRvwYlHQJwuP0ozQckMa6fjOdH6hwmbQPBWzyuo-YRxlgl0LnCI_QK30DPnxJXJsrmJej3FsKJmfSdp-pxIROI_rQNYj63YLKnddIJhs/s320/The%20Thousandth%20Regiment%20cover%20AC%20Benus.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1469575372198324716.post-21002831346079118192023-06-04T07:59:00.000-07:002023-06-04T07:59:52.684-07:00 Rodolphe Louis MEGROZ (1891 - 1968) – writer, poet and journalist<p>As far as I have been able to discover, Rodolphe Louis Mégroz was born at 40 Alderney Street, St. George Hanover Square, London, UK, on 2nd August 1891, the eldest child of Swiss-born Rodolphe Frederic Mégroz (c.1855-1899) and his wife Alice Jane (née Bull, 1862-1933), who were married in 1890. After the death of his father, Rodolphe Louis was educated at various institutions, including one of the Gordon Boys Homes.</p><p>When he was 17, Rodolphe joined Farrow's Bank as a clerk, learned shorthand and accounts and became a cashier in 1911. He joined up immediately at the outbreak of the First World War and served with the West Yorkshire Regiment as a Lance-Corporal, later becoming a Second Lieutenant. He was at Gallipoli in 1915, taking part in the landings at Suvla Bay. In 1916 he was in Egypt serving as a shorthand writer in the Chief Censor's office. He must have served at some stage on the Western Front because he wrote the following poem in France in 1917:</p><p>“Con Amore” written in France in September, 1917 by Rodolphe Louis MEGROZ (though his name is incorrectly spelt in the anthology...)</p><p>IF but my love were as my love should be, </p><p>And pen a fitting scribe unto my heart, </p><p>Even then your praise I could not worthily </p><p>In ringing rime chime forth : no earthly art </p><p>Could frame the incommunicable worth </p><p>That is all yours, purchased with many tears, </p><p>And patient bravery, and happiness of earth </p><p>Renounced to buy your children's future years. </p><p>Then on the little mound your toil made good </p><p>Against a merciless tide of circumstance </p><p>I'll stand, taking the breath of gratitude </p><p>To mind and heart their power to enhance, </p><p>That I may reach the ear of future times </p><p>And hint my Mother’s worth in these poor rimes. </p><p><br /></p><p>The world must know your greatness, little Mother ! </p><p>I will not have it so to be confined </p><p>That it should dwell but in the heart of my brother, </p><p>My sister's and mine own, and in our mind </p><p>Invoke respect, tongue-tied however just. </p><p>O Heart ! turn lyre within me ! You are stirred </p><p>At her great contemplation, then you must </p><p>Shake into song, though be it as a bird </p><p>Whose artless iteration of his theme </p><p>Makes music without skill, by virtue of </p><p>The cherished sweetness of the Spring, his dream </p><p>Through bitter Winter. Sing but of her love, </p><p>Of her exceeding love, O Heart, then you </p><p>May render somewhat of the debt her due. </p><p><br /></p><p>So great your love is, Mother, it may be </p><p>Nor held by words nor compassed by my rime ; </p><p>It has o'erwhelmed the wide, disparting sea, </p><p>It has assaulted battlemented Time </p><p>To keep your guardian spirit round me when </p><p>Danger affronted or but lay in lurk </p><p>Danger of death in this mad war of men, </p><p>Danger of sin in Life's worse war of work </p><p>And play, shadow and light, quick tears, brief joys : </p><p>You knew Life's sweetness when you gave me birth </p><p>And shared my infant bliss in stingless toys, </p><p>Alas ! that since then joy has been in dearth </p><p>And grief has loosed so many of those tears </p><p>Which grew your Faith and Love beyond the years. </p><p><br /></p><p>I have been exiled now for two long years, </p><p>Known many dangers, many pleasant places ; </p><p>I have been near to Death just when he rears </p><p>With terrible intent, and gazed upon the faces </p><p>Of stricken comrades after his dread leap ; </p><p>In eastern deserts I have worshipped beauty </p><p>Austerely still, where Death and Life to sleep, </p><p>And Home is a strange dream, and stranger " Duty " ; </p><p>Yet have your mother-hands reached out always </p><p>With some sweet draught for Mem'ry ; your pitying </p><p>Softened the couch of hardships ; darkest days </p><p>Your brightest words did light who knew the sting </p><p>Of this cruel war most cruelly deep at heart </p><p>Your love to sing then, what an Angel's art !</p><p><br /></p><p>Stern War has caused my life's frail barque to ride </p><p>Some perilous seas of Death, made me warm friends </p><p>With cold Privation, and like Dante's guide, </p><p>Down doleful, dayless ways where this life ends </p><p>And deeds, desires, are woven in hidden looms </p><p>That pattern human fate, me has he led </p><p>With hand relentless on my hand. 'Mid tombs </p><p>My dragging and his careless feet did tread, </p><p>Echoing fear about my heart, and then, </p><p>With his contempt content, my hand he freed </p><p>And left me breathing still the air of men </p><p>On this sweet earth. Yet in my daily creed </p><p>Shall be deep thanks to War that touched my eyes </p><p>With sight to see in you my priceless prize. </p><p>The full text of the poem is on pp. 113 – 119 “More songs by the fighting men. Soldier poets; second series Edited by Galloway Kyle, (Erskine Macdonald, London, 1917) and you can read the remainder of the poem here as a free download on Archive:</p><p>https://archive.org/details/moresongsbyfight00kyleuoft/page/112/mode/2up</p><p>William Galloway Kyle (1875-1967) - Editor of “Poetry Review” Magazine and founder and director of the Poetry Society. </p><p>Rodolphe’s WW1 poetry collection was entitled “Personal poems” (Erskine Macdonald, London, 1919), and he had a poem published in Galloway Kyle’s anthology “Soldier Poets: More songs by the Fighting Men” (Erskine Macdonald, London, 1917).</p><p>After the First World War ended, Rodolphe married Phyllis D Marks in 1921. He trained as a journalist and wrote numerous books, and stories. After the death of his first wife, Rodolphe married Isabel L Walton. On the 1939 Census they are listed as living in Tufnell Park, Islington, London. During the Second World War, Rodolphe worked for the BBC. Rodolphe died in St. Albans in 1968. </p><p><br /></p><p>Works by Rodolphe Louis MEGROZ</p><p><br /></p><p>Personal Poems (1919)</p><p>A talk with Joseph Conrad and a criticism of his mind and method (1926)</p><p>The Three Sitwells; a biographical and critical study (1927)</p><p>Francis Thompson: The Poet of Earth in Heaven. A Study in Poetic Mysticism and the Evolution of Love-Poetry (1927) (Faber & Gwyer)</p><p>Ronald Ross, discoverer and creator (1931)</p><p>Rhys Davies. A Critical Sketch (1932)</p><p>The Lear Omnibus (1938)</p><p>The Real Robinson Crusoe (1939)</p><p>Dante Gabriel Rossetti, painter poet of heaven in earth</p><p>Profile Art Through the Ages: A Study of the Use and significance of Profile and Silhouette from the Stone Age to Puppet Films</p><p>Shakespeare as a Letter Writer and Artist in Prose</p><p>Walter de la Mare: A Biography and Critical Study (1972)</p><p><br /></p><p>Sources: Find my Past, FreeBMD</p><p>https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._L._M%C3%A9groz</p><p>https://bearalley.blogspot.com/2009/09/rodolphe-louis-megroz.html</p><p>https://bearalley.blogspot.com/2006/10/</p><p>Catherine W. Reilly, “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978), p p.18 and 222 </p><p> “More songs by the fighting men. Soldier poets; second series” Edited by Galloway Kyle, (Erskine Macdonald, London, 1917), pp. 113 – 119</p><div><br /></div>Lucyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13956422195610297062noreply@blogger.com