Rupert Brooke

Thanks, Piffka. I've been meaning to read Brooke for a long time. You have inspired me to do it now! (I find reading long poems on-line a bit difficult, though I appreciate the large blue font you used here...)

Hi, D'a! Uh-oh. I guess it is longer than I thought. <hanging head>

I especially liked the obvious story behind this -- a young man yearning for home. Lovely descriptive verse, plus, two of my three favorite dogs are named Pansy and Poppy (see line 6).

Ah, Piffka. I love Rupert Brooke. I remember a line from a poem by him that makes me think of our troops in the Gulf:

The Soldier

If I should die think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England.

Like Byron who loved fighting on the battlefield, Brooke died, not in war, but from natural causes.

Peace

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

Good morning all- (in the spirit of Brooke, who longed to escape his life's consequences in death, as frequently do SOME more of us)
But even in his rueing, he found there WAS a time worth memory




JoanneDorel, Is not that his own signal of Peace??? That hour of death?
Thank you for searching it out, and thank you Piffka for reminding me of Brooke.
There are too many wonderful words with which to relate...

First, fifth and last stanzas from
Lines Written in the Belief That the Ancient
Roman Festival of the Dead was Called Ambarvalia

Swings the way still by hollow and hill,
And all the world's a song;
"She's far," it sings me, "but fair," it rings me,
"Quiet," it laughs, "and strong!"

---
Till mystery down the soundless valley
Thunders, and dark is here;
And the wind blows, and the light goes,
And the night is full of fear;

---
But laughing and half-way up to heaven,
With wind and hill and star,
I yet shall keep, before I sleep,
Your Ambervalia.

The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke
published 1915

Born at Rugby, August 3, 1887
Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, 1913
Sub-Lieutenant, R.N.V.R., September, 1914
Antwerp Expedition, October, 1914
Sailed with British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, February 28, 1915
Died in the AEgean, April 23, 1915
Buried at Scyros Isle

from The Great Lover

...These I have loved:
................White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such --
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's fern . . . .
.......................................................Dear Names,
And thousand others throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones; gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass; --
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.

-- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make
New Friends, now strangers . . . .
........................................But the best I've known,
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from
brains
Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains....


Rupert Brooke
Mataiea, 1914.

Heaven

Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Daw'dling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And sure, the reverent eye must see
A purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! -- Death eddies near --
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!

And there (they trust) there swimeth One
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The little fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.

[repeating:]

...Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.

-- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make
New Friends, now strangers . . . .


But the best I've known,
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from
brains
Of living men, and dies. Nothing remains....

This is SOME good poem, piffka. Thanks

Well, I thank you all for a fine introduction to the words
of Rupert Brooke - a gentleman I've not been introduced
to until today. Great words, I love when words produce
such pictures in my mind that I feel I am there with the
writer. There are times, I believe, that the right words
paint a far more engaging picture than those made from
paint on canvas.
I've never heard of Brooke, but then why would I? Not
being an English major at all, my world was full of the
abstractness of countless years of chemistry & math.
Though, from chemistry I must admit, I have derived a
most unusual picture of the world I see. I know from the
miniscule study of the elements which make up the atom
that all is in a whirl of negative & positive, so much like
the dark & light/the ying & yang/the ice & fire/the rock
& water - even while all is in motion, all is stable at the
same time. What a contradiction!

I think I am crazy!
Richard almost immediately points out that he is probably crazy:

I know!

Try:

http://www.google.co.uk/search?q=cache:5SVYFqDeFxUC:able2know.com/+&hl=en&ie=UTF-8

Hello Poetry Lovers! The musings of a young man during war, albeit WWI, is appropriate for this time.

Babs, there is no reason to worry about not knowing Rupert Brooke. If it weren't for an old book of poetry that my blessed and erudite father-in-law had, a tattered copy we inherited, I wouldn't be posting these. This was sent to him in Christmas 1944, when he was serving in France. There aren't many of Rupert Brooke's poems online, so I'm trying to "Do MY Part" with the war effort.

Hi Verbal Lee -- Thanks!



I hope you won't remain a stranger... please come back!


- - - Richard Warwick? Are you having problems navigating? Did you like the poem?

Victory by Rupert Brooke
Victory

All night the ways of Heaven were desolate,
Long roads across a gleaming empty sky.
Outcast and doomed and driven, you and I,
Alone, serene beyond all love or hate,
Terror or triumph, were content to wait,
We, silent and all-knowing. Suddenly
Swept through the heaven low crouching from on
high,
One horseman, downward to the earth's low gate.
Oh, perfect from the ultimate height of living,
Lightly we turned, through wet woods blossom-
hung,
Into the open. Down the supernal roads,
With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung,
Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving,
Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.

Beware! Brooke is no Shelley ...
Quoting Piffka - - - Richard Warwick? Are you having problems navigating? Did you like the poem?


Piffka, the poem is alright I suppose. I read it in 12th grade. The fact is however that the poetry of the 1st world war in the English language is generally not considered to be first grade poetry.

--- Ooh!

Richard Warwick -- Do you mean First Rate poetry, ie. not as good as some others? I can't give you an opinion on that except to say that I'm not a fan of anyone else determining for me whether one poem is better than another. If I like it, I like it. What may be First Rate or, as you say, First Grade, can change with the fashions of the time. I make my own decisions. These may also change, but at least they are my own.

I'm particularly interested in Rupert Brooke just now because I think he speaks to the horrors of war by showing the loneliness of leaving home and the changes wrought in young men who fight... and as I said, I've just delved into this elderly book dug out of a dusty bookcase.

I think you just met Jesus ...
Do you mean First Rate poetry, ie. not as good as some others?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Put simply: yes.

I can't give you an opinion on that except to say that I'm not a fan of anyone else determining for me whether one poem is better than another.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I don't care if you are my *fan* or not! Currently, I have many followers ...

If I like it, I like it. What may be First Rate or, as you say, First Grade, can change with the fashions of the time.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Do you want me to reinvent Shelley for you? Have you seen where the caves of ice ARE?
Or do you believe yourself immune from the Truth?

I make my own decisions. These may also change, but at least they are my own.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The question is whether your decisions are any good, not whether they are your own.

I'm particularly interested in Rupert Brooke just now because I think he speaks to the horrors of war by showing the loneliness of leaving home and the changes wrought in young men who fight... and as I said, I've just delved into this elderly book dug out of a dusty bookcase.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Which book is that? I will tell you that there is no such thing as a *dusty bookcase* - take it from me: the owner of the *dusty bookcase* is only too aware what lies therein ...

Re: I think you just met Jesus ...
Richard Warwick -- ??? Perhaps you were referring to yourself?



From Smet-Smet, The Hippopotamus Goddess

She was so strong;
But death is stronger.
She ruled us long;
But Time is longer.
She solaced our woe
And soothed our sighing;
And what shall we do
Now God is dying?

Piffka, think longer and harder before you answer.
Otherwise do not answer at all in the fear that you may reproach from God and fall from favour forever!