There are strange Hells within the minds War made
Not so often, not so humiliating afraid
As one would have expected - the racket and fear guns made.
One Hell the Gloucester soldiers they quite put out;
Their first bombardment, when in combined black shout
Of fury, guns aligned, they ducked low their heads
And sang with diaphragms fixed beyond all dreads,
That tin and stretched-wire tinkle, that blither of tune;
"Apres la guerre fini" till Hell all had come down,
Twelve-inch, six-inch, and eighteen pounders hammering Hell's thunders.
Where are they now on State-doles, or showing shop patterns
Or walking town to town sore in borrowed tatterns
Or begged. Some civic routine one never learns.
The heart burns - but has to keep out of face how heart burns.
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From guest Elysia Heathcote (contact)
Im studing Ivor Gurney and this poem and i can belive the life he had. this poem is amazing!!!!! -
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XXX(MOD)
From guest ToughIsNotEnough (contact)
Strange Hells... every Soul is a Whole World
There are strange Hells within the mind blow-made
Not felt here, not humbled there, just afraid
As one would have expected - the fires and fear blood-shade.
One Hell these Camden croakers, they quite run out.
His Islington Fury's first entombment, when in torched black shout
Of hurt hate, blades aligned, they duck low their heads
And sing from diaphragm, fix'ed beyond all dreads,
That tin and stretched-wire tinkle, that blither of tune;
"Apres la guerre fini" till Hell all had come under,
Twelve gram, six gram, and eighteen gram blow-hammer thunder.
Where will they now? On State-doles, or showing shop patterns
Or walking town and town sore in borrowed tatterns.
Or beggard. Sing jazz-blues routines one never learns.
Their hearts fired - not face to face -- with thought Hell burns.
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From guest Nicole Corteen (contact)
Ivor Gurney is fantastic, this poem represents such a depth of meaning as to put him up there with some of the greats such as Owen or Sassoon.Gurney is a wholly undervauled war poet. his evident unstable state of mind does not inhibit his creativity if anything, it permits acess to the deepest recesses of his mind for inspiration without guard or repression. -
This is a very truthful and rough and beautiful and sorrowful poem, it seems to me. As one who has suffered the effects of bomb-blast whilst in the Army, that last line reads very true.
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Gurney has always had a love for the ideal of brotherhood. So this poem is just a representation of this ideal.
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