Richard Vallance
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Vallance Review 27
Remembrance Day, 2003
Remembrance Day, 2002, Revisited
Rupert Brooke's "1914", the Nayler Sonnets, 1944
and Sondra Ball's 4 Sonnets, "Not Our War", 2003
INTRODUCTION
I wonder, how long can we, the blind lead the blind, and we, the deaf hear the deaf?
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Defence of Poetry: Part First (1821) [Sections through [1]
§28Poets... passim... were called in the earlier epochs of the world legislators or prophets: a poet essentially comprises and unites both these characters. §29 For he not only beholds intensely the present as it is, and discovers those laws according to which present things ought to be ordered, but he beholds the future in the present, and his thoughts are the forms of the flower and the fruit of latest time. §30 Not that I assert poets to be prophets in the gross sense of the word, or that they can fortell the form as surely as they foreknow the spirit of events: such is the pretence of superstition which would make poetry an attribute of prophecy, rather than prophecy an attribute of poetry. §31A Poet participates in the eternal, the infinite and the one; as far as relates to his conceptions time and place and number are not. (italics mine) [1]
Perchy Bysshe Shelley, in his timeless classic encomium, Defence of Poetry (1821), surely hit civilization right in the solar plexus, when he unveiled to the world one of the most mysterious and paradoxical functions of the poet (in the generic sense of that spirit-word) who is, in his own incisive words, quintessentially, "the prophet". Is this blasphemy? Scarcely. Sadly, though, a vast cross-section of humanity views poets with the profoundest suspicions: that is perhaps why so many of the world's greatest poets have historically been seen as gadflys, or at worst social and political anarchists, some of whom have accordingly and conveniently been let out to pasture, if not worse. In his own lifetime, John Keats, for example, was viciously excoriated by the best literary critics of his day. Someone must have got him wrong somewhere along the line. And Keats was certainly not alone: he had plenty of company. Take the early Christians, who summarily burned almost all of Sappho's "licentious poetry", the Nazis, who bonfired any poetry and any literature they couldn't stomach (i.e. most of it), and in so doing went even beyond the pale of civilization as we now feebly practice it. Countless other instances of such envy and barbarity abound, but these are three shocking enough cases in point.
The world, however, ignores the timeless prophetic voices of its poets at its own dire peril.
Are not the consequences of America's ill-advised invasion of Iraq already turning in on themselves, as the dragon who devours his own tail? Countless poets had loudly prophecised the general gist of disasters unravelling themselves willy-nilly ever since at least 9/11, even though the temporal "powers that be" seem never to listen, never to understand what a hellish nightmare they relentlessly inflict upon humankind, and in this baneful year of 2003, what a disastrous downfall they have wrought on Iraq. There shall be no happy end to this War.
Regular readers of the Vallance Review may well recall the November, 2002 review, in which I empathetically critiqued Rupert Brooke's masterpiece, "IV The Dead", from his tragic series of four sonnets, "1914". It is no accident that there exists an uncanny parallel between those four sonnets, composed almost 90 years ago, and Sondra Ball's contemporary 4 sonnet cycle, entitled, "Not Our War!", which ethically excoriates the American government's appalling partcipation in the Iraqi War of 2003 and the subsequent enforced occupation of that horrendously impoverished and desperate nation.
But there is more: as a practicing Quaker, Sondra Ball has managed to infuse her own War and Peace sonnet cycle with an intriguingly spiritual sensibility, which goes beyond simple pacificism, as enlightened as it may be, and attains a level of human empathy with suffering and the terrors of War, always unjust, on the innocent populace(s)upon whom it is so cruelly inflicted. And from this perspective, we may very well recall the deeply moving and heart-rending Nayler Sonnets, which the distinguished Quaker scholar and economist, Kenneth E. Boulding, published in 1945, the year I was born. But before we move on to The Nayler Sonnets themselves, we need first to cast a backward glance at James Nayler's tragic life in the 17th. Century.
James Nayler's Biography:
For a gut wrenching biography of James Nayler's tortuous and suffering-riddled life, please consult, James Nayler.
Here is a brief synopsis of his all too grievous life:
Born in Ardsley, Yorkshire in 1618, Nayler was married, and the father of three daughters, whom he he saw little of. A yeoman (or peasant farmer), he fought in the English Civil War of the 1640s, which profoundly shaped his religious convictions. After retiring from the wars in 1650, Nayler returned home to his farm, where he experienced an unbidden spiritiual vision while in the fields. In his own words, said he,
"I was at the plough, meditating on the things of God, and suddenly I heard a Voice, saying unto me, ‘Get thee out from thy kindred and from thy father’s house. I had a promise given with it. Whereupon I did exceedingly rejoice, that I had heard the Voice of that God which I had professed from a child, but had never known him."
From this point on, Nayler was fervently devoted to the cause of the new Quaker movement, which sought for the return to the simple values of Christianity and plain living. By 1655, under Lord Cromwell's Puritan Protectorate, Nayler was to find himself in trouble with the authorities. He had espoused a peculiarily Quaker belief that the second coming of Christ was all but imminent, which he preached far and wide. Even one of the Quaker Movement's founders, George Fox, was to abandon him. His notoriety landed him in prison in October, 1656, although he was released.
But his release was shortlived. Four days later, on a blustery rainy fall day, Nayler entered Bristol, where there were already some 4,000 Quakers. Two Quaker women, Martha Symmonds and Hannah Stranger preceeded his procession into the town, crying, "Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God of Israel", as they flung garments in the mud ahead of him. Worse yet, Nayler himself rode with outstretched arms, and that act was interpreted by many as a re-enactment of Christ's entry into Jerusalem.
The then predominantly Puritan and Presbyterian Parliament exacted severe punishment on James Nayler, accusing him of "horrid blasphemy" and of being "a Grand Imposter and seducer of people". For punishment, he narrowly missed the death sentence by 14 votes. Instead, on a bitterly cold December 18, Nayler was pilloried at Westminster for two hours, then whipped as he was dragged through the streets. Two days later, Nayler was again pilloried, had his tongue bored through with a hot iron, and the letter "B" (Blasphemer) branded into his forehead. Subsequently, in January, 1657, he was imprisoned in a dank cell at Bridewall prison for 2 1/2 years. Released in October, 1660, he set out on foot for home, but was robbed, severely beaten, bound and left for dead. His head injuries were so severe they killed him on October 21, 1660. He was 44 years old.
James Nayler pilloried and whipped, December 18, 1657
Quoted in its entirety, as it serves as the rock foundation for the balance of this review, here is the full text of James Nayler's poignant deathbed testimonial prayer:
There is a spirit which I feel that delights to do no evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end. Its hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to weary out all exaltation and cruelty, or whatever is of a nature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of all temptations. As it bears no evil in itself, so it conceives none in thought to any other. If it be betrayed, it bears it, for its ground and spring is the mercies and forgiveness of God. Its crown is meekness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned; it takes its kingdom with entreaty and not with contention, and keeps it by lowliness of mind. In God alone it can rejoice, though none else regard it, or can own its life. It is conceived in sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression. It never rejoiceth but through sufferings; for with the world's joy it is murdered. I found it alone, being forsaken. I have fellowship therein with them who lived in dens and desolate places of the earth, who through death obtained this resurrection and eternal holy life.
Thou wast with me when I fled from the face of mine enemies: then didst Thou warn me in the night: Thou carriedst me in Thy power into the hiding-place Thou hadst prepared for me: there Thou coveredst me with Thy Hand that in time Thou mightst bring me forth a rock before all the world. When I was weak Thou stayedst me with Thy Hand, that in Thy time Thou mightst present me to the world in Thy strength in which I stand, and cannot be moved. Praise the Lord, O my soul. Let this be written for those that come after. Praise the Lord. [3]
SOURCE: Christian faith and practice in the experience of the Society of Friends (London Yearly Meeting, 1960) [2]
Rupert Brooke's Biogaphy:
For a telling biography tracing the defining personal and literary developments in Rupert Brooke's life, please refer back to the Vallance Review, Remembrance Day, 2002, "Rupert Brooke's 'The Dead' (1915) ", Biography of Rupert Brooke (1887-1915). That same review is wholly devoted to the praise and commemoration of the fourth of Rupert Brooke's "1914" Sonnets, which I cite yet again, in the 2003 Remembance Day review, as it serves as the jumping off point for the next two "war" sonnets, published successively in 1945 and 2003, and presented here. This sonnet speaks so eloquently for itself and for Rupert Brooke's undying Christian compassion for humanity no further comments are needed on my part. In fact, in this review, for once in my life, I shall abstain entirely from any critical or summative analysis, and merely allow these three tragically poignant sonnets to speak in their own eloquent voice. You will, however, notice a marked similarity, not only in their thematics, but in their sombre tone and in the heartfelt appeal they in turn make, in their own unique and profoundly human way, for compassion in the face of the ghastly horror that is War, the bane of humanity since time immemorial.
1914 Sonnet IV "The Dead" by Rupert Brooke
IV
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) [3]
Rupert Brooke, "A Young Apollo, Golden Haired"
References and Notes [3] link to both this sonnet [3.1] and to the Vallance Review, Remembrance Day, 2002 [3.2].
Kenneth E. Boulding's Biogaphy:
Kenneth Ewart Boulding (1910-1993) was born in Liverpool, graduated from Oxford and soon emigrated to America. A brilliant economist, he wrote the monumental, Economic Analysis, which epitomized Neoclassical Keynesian Theory tempered with ethical, ecological and religious concerns. As a Quaker, Boulding was frequently involved in the advancement of Peace, and closely involved with the Canadian Peace Research Institute. At the University of Michigan he established his "Center for Research in Conflict Resolution". His final tenure was with the University of Colorado in 1967.
Kenneth Ewart Boulding (1910-1993)
But Kenneth E. Boulding was more than just an economist, a scholar and social-democratic activisit. He was also something of a poet. In 1945, he published his now reputed 26 "Nayler Sonnets". There are 26 sonnets, because the first verse of each sonnet corresponds exactly with each successive line of the first paragraph of John Nayler's deathbed prayer, cited in full above. Should you wish to learn more of the dedicated life of Kenneth E. Boulding, you may consult References and Notes [4].
The Nayler Sonnets, 1944-1945
Faced with 26 sonnets in the 1945 Nayler Sonnets, which one was I to choose as representative of the spirit, not only of these sonnets as a discrete collection, but as exemplars of the continuum comprising the message and intent of this very review and of the other sonnets I have selected in conjunction with it? Tough call. Having so often read all of the Nayler Sonnets, which have never failed to inspire and move me to my spirit, I thought I might be faced here with a real conundrum. But, to my relief, this turned out not to be the case. When I returned to the Nayler Sonnets for this review, one sonnet in particular (Sonnet 21) leapt out and shone its light on me, illuminating not only itself, but the sonnets of Rupert Brooke, Sondra Ball and Richard Vallance which accompany it.
The Nayler Sonnets, Sonnet 21:
Nor doth it murmur at grief and oppression
MUST Christian Love move us to fat content
With the black dismal mass of man's distress?
And wrapped in God, must we then blandly bless
Wretchedness, pain, disease, as Heaven-sent
To prove our virture, channel our intent
Away from Earth, where power and lust oppress
The ancient-suffering seed of gentleness,
And wealth and health always for nought are spent?
Ah never, never! If this thing were true,
That we are cattle, tortured, that God's grace
May shine: I would deny Him to His face.
And yet---and yet---if God should suffer too,
And share, and love, and die: may we not see
The paradox . . . blaze into Mystery?
Kenneth Boulding, 1945 (Copyright renewed & still in effect) [5]
Sondra Ball's Biography in Her Own Words:
"I am a Quaker, a pacifist, a wife, a mother, a poet, and an American Indian activist -- not necessarily in that order. I have been writing poetry since I was seven and discovered, "A Garden of Verses", by Robert Louis Stevenson, though he was not the first poet I read. Actually, I think the first poem I ever read was "The Vision of Sir Lanfal" or some such title, by some unknown author, which I came across when I was five. It begins "Over his keys the musing organist, beginning doubtfully and far away .." I had absolutely no idea what it meant, but fell in love with the music of the words -- and I suppose it's still the music more than the meaning that draws me to poetry. Stevenson just let me know that poems could also mean something."
Additional Biographical NOTES by your reviewer:
Sondra Ball is a highly respected American poet and poetry journal editor of the Amerindian E-Zine, AUTUMN LEAVES, one of the most illustrious and ethically conscientious journals in the United States. She has been interviewed by Sara Russell, in the October, 2002, issue of Poetry Life and Times [6]. Richard Vallance has also featured one of Sondra Ball's previous sonnets in SONNETTO POESIA [7]. The photo of Sondra Ball you see here shows her with her child and a wild horse on Asateague Island, where she and the family often go camping.
Not Our War!
IVUnbidden Tears by Sondra Ball
Unbidden tears went streaming down my face,
these friends well known since childhood’s lonely years
that tendered me to feel another’s fears,
to ache by yet another soul’s disgrace;
flowing through me both at noon and midnight
for every side within this battle locked:
senators, soldiers, children of Iraq;
all sides cut off from sharing love and light.
We dare not flee this devastating pain,
this awful hurt that we must choose to bear:
our nation’s move to harm, and not to share
with others something of God’s love and gain.
Like Christ, who bore our sins upon his tree,
we must atone for our own land’s misdeeds.
copyright © 2003 sondra ball
Sondra Ball's deeply resonating and tragic sonnet speaks eloquently for itself and on its own clearly elucidated ethical terms. There is no compromise here, no raison d'être or excuse, however "rational", for War. This our poet makes all too abundantly clear. That her sonnet so faithfully mirrors the spirit of the suffering peace-loving Quakers were subjected to from their establishment in the 1640's to their emigation almost en masse to America in the 18th. Century is evidenced in her strong, unwavering convictions, shining through the sonnet. This same poem also faithfully resurrects the spirit of compassion that so informed James Nayler's life, and the two previous sonnets we have already seen here by Rupert Brooke and Kenneth E. Boulding.
This sonnet is the fourth in a series of sonnets entitled, "Not Our War". Read the full series below:
Not Our War!
I
Television News
Television news: more moments of pain,
bombs falling in some distant foreign land,
blood of civilians flowing on the sand,
our soldiers fighting for some dollar gain,
praying that God will grant them victory.
“Not to my God!” I say. “Not in His Name!
He has called us to leave our wealth and fame.
He came to set all human beings free.”
It is today that all this war must end.
Today’s the time to close this spinning door,
time to change my enemy to my friend,
lay down my arms and study war no more.
As I have heard so many wise ones say,
“There is no way to peace. Peace is the way.”
II
A Mercenary Night
It is night. Mercenary tyrants sleep
undisturbed by longings for justice, peace;
while overseas the oil wars never cease.
Orphans lying in shallow ditches weep,
exhausted by the hot and bloody day;
and men who never uttered any groan
by light of sun, are crying all alone
in bitterness, knowing that far away
tyrants’ families sing their midnight songs,
or walk, well-clothed, upon some foreign shore,
or dance in lighted halls with well fed throngs;
and have no interest in his broken door
or battered walls or dying little child.
They sleep and never care what wars may yield.
III
Mad Hands
Go, mad hands, embrace the world with mad plans!
You vultures! - waiting to drink all our blood,
waiting patiently for that desired flood
of blood to flow over our darkened land.
What banquet awaits you on millions deceased?
The bodies we slay on mountains and shores?
Millions of vultures all feeding on gore
and harping on others to join the feast;
as I stand near-by, in shock and in tears,
watch surviving orphans shaking with fear.
Caught up in that final maddening sweep
of men driven mad by greed, they so weep,
driven mad with anguish, full of despair,
victims of gold, a power gendered war.
IV
Unbidden Tears
Unbidden tears went streaming down my face,
these friends well known since childhood’s lonely years
that tendered me to feel another’s fears,
to ache by yet another soul’s disgrace;
flowing through me both at noon and midnight
for every side within this battle locked:
senators, soldiers, children of Iraq;
all sides cut off from sharing love and light.
We dare not flee this devastating pain,
this awful hurt that we must choose to bear:
our nation’s move to harm, and not to share
with others something of God’s love and gain.
Like Christ, who bore our sins upon his tree,
we must atone for our own land’s misdeeds.
copyright © 2003 sondra ball
The Second Nayler Sonnets, 2003
Richard Vallance has just finished composing "The Second Nayler Sonnets, 2003", which are published separately in this issue of Poetry Life and Times, on Featured Poets, page 2. They are the long-since-delayed outcome of Richard's off-again on-again attendance at the Sunday meetings of the Ottawa Society of Friends throughout 1997 and early 1998. It was at that time Richard was first exposed to Kenneth E. Boulding's "The Nayler Sonnets" (1945), which profoundly affected him and were instrumental in the publication of Richard's first ever book of poetry, A Quilt of Sonnets [out-of-print]. However, The Nayler Sonnets have always held an almost hypnotic fascination for the author. Suddenly, in mid-October, 2003, Richard's inspiration came to him in a flash. He would paraphrase the entire first paragraph of James Nayler's deathbed eulogy. The three "Second Nayler Sonnets, 2003" are the fruit of that inspiration, for which Richard is forever thankful to James Nayler, Rupert Brooke, Kenneth E. Boulding and Sondra Ball.
Conclusions:
Enough, enough of warmongers and warrior nations forever rising to the paien of their own battle: Why do the nations so furiously rage together,
and why do the people imagine a vain thing?
The kings of the earth rise up, and the rulers take counsel together
against the Lord, and against His anointed" (Psalms 2:1-2). [8]
Though we must rise above our bones of contention, can we find the strength to bring an end to War in this Century? In view of humanity's past pathetic record on this score, I remain all too pessimistic. And yet, it remains only too glaringly obvious we had best do something drastic fast, or it may very well be the bitter end of our "civilization" on the cross of our own self-inflicted wounds.
The poets of this world, who rank amongst those cherished few of its truest legislators, have always loudly protested against the madness of death through War, and all the blood and gore that stains everyone's hands, down to the last of us.
And so again this year, to round out this tragic review grounded in sorrow, in spite of myself and at the same time paradoxically not, I must quote, in part, the same profoundly humane passage from John Donne's Meditations as I cited in last year's Remembrance Day Vallance Review, 2002:
John Donne, Meditation XVII (Excerpta): No Man is an Island...
All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated... As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who 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; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Copyright © Richard Vallance, 2003
October 23, 2003
REFERENCES AND NOTES:
[1] Representative Poetry Online: Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), "Defence of Poetry: Part First" (1821). NOTE: in case you're wondering, Shelley never got around to writing "Part Second", though we surely would have had to stand in awe of it, had he lived long enough to do so.
[2] Christian faith and practice in the experience of the Society of Friends (London Yearly Meeting, 1960)
[3.1] Rupert Brooke, "1914" IV "The Dead"
[3.2] Vallance Review, November, 2002: In Commemoration of Remenbrance Day, 2002: Rupert Brooke's, "The Dead" (1915)
[4] Here are a few links to biographies of Kenneth E. Boulding:
[4.1] Kenneth E. Boulding
[4.2] Kenneth Ewart Boulding
[4.3] Pendle Hill Pamphlets: Publications of Kenneth E. Boulding (Religious Society of Friends)
[5.1] Kenneth E. Boulding, The Nayler Sonnets
[5.2] Kenneth E. Boulding: Bibliography of Published Works
[5.3] Boulding, Kenneth E. "The Nayler Sonnets", in Inward Light, Vol. 19, Spring 1944: pp. 4-13. Also published as: There Is a Spirit: The Nayler Sonnets. New York: Fellowship Press, 1945. 26 pp.
[6] Poetry Life and Times, October, 2002: an Interview with Sondra Ball.
[7] SONNETTO POESIA, Vol. 1., no. 1, Spring, 2002. Sondra Ball, "The Robin Builds its Nest".
[8] Antipas (My Faithful Witness) Handel's Oratorio "Messiah" Part the Second. The citation refers to the Disciplining of the Nations at the Second Coming of the Messiah, which is section 40 of Handel's "Messiah", Air (Bass)
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