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In Commemoration of REMEMBRANCE DAY, 2002:
Rupert Brooke’s, "The Dead" (1915)
Rupert Chawner Brooke was born in Rugby, Warwickshire, in 1887. Even as a child, he loved poetry, and went on to win his school’s poetry prize at in 1905. He attended upper school at King’s College, Cambridge, where he won his matriculation in 1911, becoming a Fellow the following year.
Though his life was as meteoric as a falling star, he was long on charm, and easily won the affection of practically everyone who met him. On the surface of things, it seemed his sunny personality matched his stunning physical beauty. He was so beautiful that one of his female friends, Frances Cornford, granddaughter of Charles Darwin, penned these memorable words about him in her 1908 poem: Photo: Rupert Brooke (1913) by Sherril Schell These words seem to epitomize Rupert Brooke’s destiny: he would soon be long remembered as a late Romantic poet, whose nobility and strength of character in the face of duress, and whose patriotic views would be practically cast in stone. As popular as he was bound to be, he quickly gained access to the literary group known as the “Neo-Pagans”, which included such renowned figures as Virgina Woolf and E.M. Forster, author of A Passage to India. Winston Churchill, who was also in his close-knit circle, described him as, "Joyous, fearless, versatile, deeply instructed, with classic symmetry of mind and body, he was all that one would wish England's noblest sons to be..." Apparently, even his male friends were very much aware of his subtle charm. The “Neo-Pagans” were, of course, what we might term, “free thinkers”, and largely an anathema to early Twentieth Century England’s “stiff upper lip” Georgian Society. On the other hand, their liberal views well suited Rupert Brooke’s temperament. Prone to depressive bouts and even occasional forays into suicidal thoughts, Brooke was almost continually tormented by a confused sexual identity throughout his late adolesence and brief adult life. He fell head over heels in love with at least two prominent women in his short life, Noel Oliver and the Tahitian Ka Cox, but these relationships proved stormy. Both women left him in the lurch, and his love unrequited. Rupert Brooke was such a sensitive, compassionate soul that these amorous misadventures were bound to leave a permanent scar on him. He would never be able to recover from his overwhelming feelings of romantic love, which he often ingenuously bestowed on many of his friends, male and female alike [R2]. Early sensual encounters with males had left an indelible mark on him [R2 again], all the more so in an Age when any deviation from the sexual norm was considered a sin against nature. The trial of Oscar Wilde had recently taken place, and its consequences must have been painfully obvious to Rupert Brooke.
In the end, he could never be certain of love, and eventually became afraid of committing himself to anyone, for fear of being more deeply hurt.
At the age of only 27, Rupert Brooke swiftly died of blood poisoning contracted from a mosquito bite, on April 23rd., 1915 while en route to Gallipoli with the British Antwerp Naval Expedition. Ironically and fittingly, his funeral service was held on the Day of Resurrection, Easter Sunday, April, 1915. He is buried on the island of Skyros in the Aegean Sea, where innumerable tourists and admirers flock to his graveside annually.
For a more complete biography of the poet, you may consult any of these scholarly links:
Although his inability to fully love and the torments he suffered from it cost him dearly, these very same experiences molded his poetic psyche so finely that his poetry cannot be said to have suffered qualitatively as a result. Quite the contrary appears to be the case. Even a cursory reading of some of his finest poems reveals that here we are confronted with a profoundly moving writer, indeed a master of the art in every sense of the word.
Sadly, Rupert Brooke’s poetry was subject to adverse criticism in the early Twentieth Century, when many critics considered his work “sentimental” and lacking in depth. That prevalent view was, however, probably at least partially due to the fact that critics of his day misread his Romantic adventures as sentimentalism, for the simple reason that their straightlaced moral values quite prevented them from ever understanding him. After all, in a society where “the love that dare not speak its name” was not even acknowledged, misinterpretation of authors espousing Romantic ideals and any feelings of love beyond the pale of social norms was inevitable.
However, the intervening Century has more than vindicated him as one of England’s finest poets, even in light of his rather modest output of 82 poems all told. Today, English social norms are far removed from what they were at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. It is because we now generally accept the possibility, indeed, the likelihood of variations in sexual orientation, however slight or great these may be, that we are in a better position to more accurately assess the psychological landscape of Rupert Brooke’s intensely personal, vividly Romantic poems. Make no mistake about it: Rupert Brooke was in the company of the late Romantics, call them what we will. There is a beautiful nostalgic air to his poetry that hearkens back to a world and an age we seem to have all but forgotten in our haste to live our lives, often without proper regard for even our own more exalted “sentiments”. There can be little doubt that all of the influencing factors I have mentioned strongly contributed to what is now considered to be a poetic opus of inestimable value, which speaks universally to the emotional dramas of our own lives. In short, Rupert Brooke is a poet for all places and all ages.
As he approached the end of his brief life, Rupert Brooke distanced himself from the liberal ideals he had once espoused while frequenting the company of the Neo-Pagans in his youth. This conservatism also makes itself keenly felt in the body of his poetry. Indeed, the personal factors I have outlined largely define his poetry, including his so-called "War poems", amongst which we count, "1914. IV The Dead".
As we shall see when we turn to the review of the sonnet, "The Dead," we may even conclude that it is, along with the other 4 comprising the sequence, "1914 and other Poems", as much about Rupert Brooke himself, his personality, his idealism and his remarkable literary sensibility as it is about War. The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke (1915)
Brooke’s literary achievements were not confined to poetry. An inveterate traveller, in 1912 and 1913, he wrote extensive “travel letters” for the Westminster Gazette, as well as Letters from America [B2]. All of his poetry then extant was published in two volumes during his lifetime, Georgian poetry [B3], an anthology of English poetry, on which he collaborated with his friend, Edward Marsh, and his own book of poetry, published in 1911.
As I sat in my study the other night, contemplating just how to go about writing the November, 2002, Vallance Review, I was struck by the depressing realization that Remembrance Day was coming up very soon. In light of the terrible events unfolding on the international scene this very moment, as we seem on the brink of rushing headlong into yet another major conflagration, dare I say, a possible Third World War, it seemed a matter of utmost urgency for me to address the situation head on, by writing a review in keeping with the somewhat glum spirit of our times. How utterly ironic it is that we, at the outset of the Third Millenium, seem yet again as ill prepared for the dire consequences of a World War as we were a almost full Century ago, when Europe was plunged into World War I (1914-1918), followed by America (1917-1918), and when again, first Europe, and then the entire World, including America (December 7th., 1941-1945), was dragged by the scruff of the neck into World War II (1939-1945). Have we learned nothing? — sadly, or so it seems, apparently not. Only this time, the irony of it is that the terrorists, who so viciously attacked and destroyed the World Trade Center, last September 11th., appeared to have launched America itself on a path towards a major War, which, come what may, it seems hell bent on starting, in the face of even a most concerned and visibly disturbed general global opinion to the contrary. However, I suppose that is neither here nor there, given the sheer inevitability of it all. "As you make your bed, so you lie in it", as the old saying goes. However, even in the face of possible impeding all-out War, we have to ask ourselves, just exactly what is war all about? Should we celebrate it; honour it; grieve the loss, potential or real, of so many countless men and women; struggle ever so valiantly to realize its horrific impact on the lives of so many billions more, if not, indeed, on the entire human race and our already devastated planet? Just what is it all supposed to mean, if indeed war, as cruel and pointless as it always turns out to be, means anything? Even a first reading of Rupert Brooke’s Sonnet IV, “The Dead” in the sonnet sequel “1914” reveals that for this generous-hearted poet, there is much more to war and to its impacts on our lives than even those consequences I have already enumerated. His is a vivid, intensely personal, why, even loving portrayal of his unflinching bond with all of humanity — and indeed, ours, if we have any sense of compassion whatsoever for our fellows. Our poet seems to be in spiritual league with the likes of John Donne (1572-1631), whose metaphysical poetry and prose passages alike reveal a remarkably similar spiritual — dare I say, even religious — attitude of exaltation towards the sorry plight of his fellow humans, whose lot he knows he shares and cannot escape. Rupert Brooke might just as easily have uttered words similar to John Donne’s precious characterization of humanity’s common fate, where the former says, (I) “am brought so near the door by this sickness... No man is an island, entire of itself... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind;… (Italics mine) (See Conclusion below). Although the more recent poet never did utter such words, he often repeated uncannily similar sentiments throughout his heartfelt verses. Other than in the sonnet, “IV The Dead” itself, we find such loving longings after his Friends (of whom he had plenty) and after his fellow human sufferers, recurring over and over in his lovely lyrics. Here are just a few examples, some of them from his early verses:
Strain through the dark with undesirous eyes To what may lie beyond it. Sets your star, O heart, for ever!…
”Second Best” (1905. Composed when he was 18!) – or yet again, in a later poem, almost prayerfully, he utters these words:
Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell. But there are wanderers in the middle mist, Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom: Even these two brief quotations more than suffice to clearly illustrate Rupert Brooke’s uncanny penchant for empathy with the human race in its entirety, and the plight we must all endure in our (often futile) quest for love, and the ensuing loneliness not one of us may escape, except in Death itself… which brings me right to the threshold of our sonnet. I have to admit I was fairly flabbergasted, even at my first run at this sonnet! It quite overwhelmed me emotionally. It gripped me so strongly it caused emotions I had long since repressed to well up unbidden to the surface, and made me feel so united with anyone (no, I stand corrected) everyone I have ever known in my lifetime, whether Friend or Foe. Very few poems have ever exerted such uncanny an emotional sway over me. From the very outset of the poem, it became almost instantly, indeed, insistently obvious to me that here was a poet speaking as much about his faithful bond, born of personal suffering, with all of humanity, as he was of war. Indeed, Rupert Brooke’s universal empathy is so strongly rooted in us all that it would be well nigh impossible to read the sonnet otherwise, from an the standpoint of our inescapable emotive involvement in his humanity. But there is far more to this sonnet than simply our emotional involvement, however profound that may be. Brooke’s measured, highly evocative imagery plays on our hearts at many subtle layers of the psyche and the soul. How can we possibly resist the ineffable beauty of such phrases as:
- and again
- or yet again
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night. Do not these sentiments, at a metaphysical level, well enough remind us of a similar pronouncement made by Rupert Brooke’s forbear, none other than John Donne himself? In his own splendid sonnet, “Death be not proud”, he valiantly asserts, through the power of his faith in God:
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. John Donne (1572-1631) [R4] And what is more powerful even than Death? The answer is self-evident: love, as here echoed in the Neo-Platonic verses of William Shakespeare himself (1564-1616):
In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) [R5] I have quoted the concluding remarks from both John Donne’s masterful sonnet and William Shakespeare’s chef d’oeuvre, Sonnet 53, for this reason and this reason specifically, namely; that it seems to me Rupert Brooke’s equally magnificent sonnet, “1914 V The Dead” captures the spirit of both of these poems alike. And that is no mean feat in itself.
Though, as for those last four verses, from: "Frost, with a gesture..." to "... under the night.", I ask you, what on earth could be more compellingly beautiful, more humanely compassionate than these, which are more of a sublime melodic invention than they are mere words? Doesn't the music of this all-too remarkable foray into spiritual realms quite beyond the ken of Death hit home? If we take the trouble, well deserved, to read this holy sonnet aloud, the melody cannot escape us, nor we it: allow yourself to listen in on and hear the melodies in their raptures unfold!
(Iambic: trochee, iamb, iamb, iamb, iamb – – or again,
so marvellously twinned with In verse 6, all those open “o”s felicitously convey the inestimable values of friendship; in verse 8, “All”, consisting of an open “a”, followed by a double liquid, is so expansive that this word quite overpowers the next two, where the verb is put in the passive. In addition, both verses end in feminine rhyme. The effect in verse 6 of the stress on the first syllable of “friended” highlights the great importance Rupert Brooke set on friendship, which was the primary driving force in his life (as indeed attested by almost all his poems). Whereas, in verse 8, the use of the passive voice in conjunction with feminine rhyme serves to stress “All”. Rupert Brooke's “All” implies not only the loss of well loved lives, but also the loss of innocence and experience(s) he shared with them all! These, and other similar melodic devices peppered liberally through the sonnet, fine-tune the poem so well it sounds truly gratifying and pleasing to the ear, when it is read aloud. Personally, I think perhaps the melody of these verses rings most truly to the Harmony of the Spheres:
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,… [Italics mine] Now, there are several things striking about these lines, not the least of which are:
1. The gentle rocking motion evoked by the interspersed sibilants and soft consonants, “w”, “y” and “v”, It cannot have escaped my notice that the emotional, philosophical and melodic parallelisms replete in this sonnet can remind one so vividly of the music of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, whose music so very often conveys the same joyousness and exaltation of spirit as Rupert Brooke’s poetry. Ah, but I wax too lyrical! I think it best instead to leave the parting thought in the mouth of the bard himself, Rupert Brooke, who exults, yet again, and with such profoundly moving faith and empathy over our shared allotted sufferings and even shame, where, in “1914 1 Peace”, he asserts:
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,… It is a pity there are so many amongst us, for whom shame betokens merely “sin”; but for Rupert Brooke, both sin and shame were but one means to the ultimate end, and that end is, as so immanently expressed in his sonnet, “Love”, one thing and one thing only, Love:
… passim,,, (and he concludes)… All this is love; and all love is but this. Love sublimates all suffering and all joy, all fear and all shame, everything we are and we do as humans. Love is the be-all-and-end-all for all humanity. There can be no exception.
So what may we conclude, not only from his sonnet, “IV Death”, but indeed from his summative poetic opus? — simply this, that Rupert Brooke’s poetry is not so much about war, or suffering or shame, or even passion or joy or exaltation as it is, in a word, about Love. If we are to remember anyone, and especially the Dead, let us therefore remember them out of our Love. What more need I say? And so I think it befitting to end on this note, in remembrance of all mankind's shared sufferings and joys, and of the love that must inexorably bind us together, come what may. John Donne. Meditation XVII (Excerpta). No man is an island… © by Richard Vallance, 2002 October 20th., 2002 This review is written in honour of my Father, Louis Charles George Janke (1920-1986), who fought and served as a Lieutenant Commander in the Royal Canadian Navy in the Second World War (1939-1945). For his photograph, see [R7] below. Canada declared War on Germany on September 3rd., 1939.
Bibliography:
[B1] Brooke, Rupert. The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke. [with an introduction by George Edward Woodberry (pp. v-xiv) and a biographical note by Margaret Lavington (pp. 161-168). New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, © 1915 (1924). xvii. 168 pp. (from the private collection of Richard Vallance) [B2] Brooke, Rupert. Letters from America. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, © 1931. [First paperback edition, © 1989] 222 pp. ISBN 0-283-9989-0 [B3] xrefer The Oxford University Press/ Georgian Poetry / Rupert Chawner Brooke (1887-1915) [B4]. Brooke Rupert. Rupert Brooke: The Complete Poems. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, © 1932. viii, 167 pp. (first Canadian edition, from the collection of Richard Vallance) [R1] These verses may be found here: Poesie's laissez-faire. The Classical Sonnet. Rupert Brooke (1887-1915). "The Dead" [R2] A brief excerpt from one of Rupert Brooke's youthful poems suffices to establish the profound emotional effect on him of at least one early romantic attachment to another male: See [B1] above, pg. 44, "THE BEGINNING" [R3] The Sonnet Board. Sonnets of World War I. Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) [R4] The Sonnet Board. John Donne. "Death Be Not Proud" [R5] For the full text of this lovely sonnet (Sonnet LIII), see William Shakespeare. Sonnet 53 [R6] The Sonnet as the Landscape of Mystery: Walter de la Mare's "Silver" [R7] The photograph of my Father, Louis Charles George Janke (1917-1986), appears on this page:
See also Poetry Life and Times, October, 2002. Featured Poets, Page 2
Moderator,
Describe Adonis:
Kawasaki Zen Haiku:
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POETRY IN EMOTION – LA POÉSIE À S’ÉMOUVOIR
Vous pouvez enfin lire le volume 1, numéro 4, de l'e-zine canadien :
Poetry in Emotion – la poésié s’émouvoir.
Dans ce numéro, l'écrivain en vedette est Rolland Pauzin, poète français entièrement bilinque, qui réside actuellement en Irlande. Rolland écrit des poèmes de tous les genres : les poèmes en vers libre, les rondelais, les haïku et les sonnets. Le sujet de l’éditorial est :
Les poètes bilingues français et canadiens.
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POETRY IN EMOTION – LA POÉSIE À S’ÉMOUVOIR
READ the current issue
Poetry in Emotion – la poésié s’émouvoir.
The featured poet for this issue is Rolland Pauzin, a fully bilingual French poet who currently lives in Ireland. Rolland writes poems in many genres: free verse, roundelays, haikus and sonnets. The subject of the Editorial is:
Bilingual French and Canadian Poets.
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Vous pouvez enfin lire le volume 1, numéro 2, de l'e-zine canadien,
Vous pouvez enfin lire
le volume 1, numéro 3, de l'e-zine canadien,
- celui de l’automne, 2002, chez le lien suivant :
SONNETTO POESIA
Dans ce numéro uniquement en anglais, l'écrivain en vedette est Andrew Belseyde l’Angleterre .
Vous y lirez aussi deux sonnets classiques, dont l’un est par John Keats ( 1795-1821 ) : "Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition", et l’autre est par le poète irlandais, Edward Dowden ( 1843-1913 ) : "In the Cathedral". Ces sonnets servent à établir l’optique historique, dans laquelle se situent les deux sonnets similaires de Monsieur Belsey, voire, "The Good" et "Antitheism." Le sujet de l’éditorial est: "The Sonnet in the Twenty-First Century".
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The Autumn, 2002 issue (Vol. 1, no. 3) of: SONNETTO POESIA
- which features the English sonneteer, Andrew Belsey is now on the WEB here:
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