Ipswich High School - Tiger Yearbook (Ipswich, MA)

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saillcs Treaty and other “practical phases of the war. It is the poetry that is immortal, for it lifted the world above the grim heartbreak and showed a Purpose and a Future. A young Englishwoman, Sylvia J. Read, recently tried an experiment of reading poetry on various subjects, in- cluding the war, to soldiers in British camps. She approached the first such reading with not a few qualms that poetry and soldiers do not mix, but every selection was applauded. Some soldiers shyly produced verses of their own; many of them entered into lively discussion about poetry: one of them told her that the experience had been “more real than living”: and all re- quested certain favorites of the other world war to be read. Unfailingly, Rupert Brooke’s sonnet. “The Soldier”, was among the first to be requested. This sonnet was written shortly before the young tennis champion with all of a vigorous life before him, died of fever on the journey to the Dardanelles Campaign of 1914. “If I should die. think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust con- cealed : A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware. Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away. A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given: Her sights and sounds: dreams happy as her day: And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness. In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.” There were two other equally-loved poems written also by soldiers of World War I who died in action but left their verses to inspire and soothe their com- rades and the rest of the world. John McCrae, a young Canadian Lieutenant- Colonel, challenged the living to carry on the cause of the valiant dead in “In Flanders Fields”. “Take up our quarrel with the foe; To you from failing hands we throw The torch: be yours to hold it high.’ ' Alan Seeger was a young American soldier who died on Independence Day, 1916, in a battle in France. He tells us; 30

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The students feel very proud to be able to help win this war of freedom. Many of them having obtained some training in the Civilian Defense Or- ganizations have joined the armed forces and have found themselves much better off for the time that they sacrificed :o these units. We now have six young men from this year’s class in the armed service. The students feel that by helping in Civilian Defense they are helping themselves to become better citizens in the best country in the world, the United States of America. POETRY, A LINE OF DEFENSE By Ruth Wilson A ll nations at war eventually come to play the fascinating game of rationing. It is a hard game, but every- one starts on an equal footing and shares the same handicaps until the play is over. It is a fascinating game, for everyone must take part and feel the sense of unity which comes from par- ticipating in a crucial contest. More- over, rationing serves as a kind of intricate census by which the govern- ment can discover how many aunts, sons, fathers, daughters, etc. there are within its boundaries. The government can also compile statistics about height and weight so that newer, more accurate charts, founded upon the supposition that all men are created equal, can be hung in classrooms to show pupils how much they should weigh at a given age. Every day we hear of some new product which the government is likely to restrict for public use. When we think of the possibility of giving up our afternoon tea, we wonder if some- thing such as poetry will not be the next victim. Perhaps people are read- ing too much poetry, using up valuable eyesight and time. Rationing of poetry could be made according to the weight of brain divided by the average number of poems enjoyed per month, or some other such method. Seriously, however, we realize that poetry is as necessary to the defense of national morale as submarines are to the protection of our naval forces. William Rose Benet, a critic and a poet himself, has written, “We have had to face the facts with bitter realism, and we realize that against a malign foe . . . nothing will avail so much now as airplanes and armored equipment. But we also know that in the end, nothing will avail so much for the world as dedicated art and the power of the intellect ... It is up to the poets to give us some real light and leading.” For an overexerted na- tion bending over factory tables for longer hours every week needs the illumination of a poet’s insight to paint the true picture of the Goal for which the muscle-aching labor is given. Understandably enough, then, of all the phases of the last war it is the poetry that we like to remember and still enjoy, rather than the battered tanks, and mangled bodies, the burning cities and the barbed wire, or even the Ver- 29

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“I have a rendezvous with Death, At some disputed barricade When Spring comes round with rust- ling shade And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous”. These are only three short lyrics of a host of poetry that we like to remem- ber from the first world war. In the same way, in decades to come, when the last bomb of this w ar has exploded and even the gallant defense of the Philippines is a paragraph in a history book, there will be poems to be remembered and loved by future genera- tions. V e cannot predict, of course, which poets will survive, for m.yriads of them are as yet unwritten: but we can investigate the position of the poets today, surmise what is uppermost in their minds, and admire those verses which seem to us the most inspirational. Military life today, especially in the fighting zones, is keyed to such a high pitch of watchfulness that little “tom- foolery” or poetry is countenanced. Nevertheless, few poets enter the service with the thought of utterly neglecting the art. They somehow manage to find a spare moment to write down the poems that come to them. Whether at home or in active service, the poets are producing more poems than usual. Be- cause of an acute paper shortage, there is a minimum of books being published in England, but statistics show that there is nevertheless an increasing num- ber of volumes of verse going to the press! Poets are not immune to discourage- ment. In fact, they feel sadness much more acutely than ordinary individuals. Yet when they allow themselves to in- dulge in writing sombre, disheartening verses when their mission is bringing light to a war-sad world, they cease to become a line of defense, and take the shape of something almost subversive. Sad to say, there are poets today who indulge in writing bewildered poetry. In this January’s “Atlantic Month- ly” there was printed a poem called “Dedication” which John Buxton, an English prisoner in a German prison camp, rote to his bride back in England. He recounts again their favorite haunts, watching the wild geese; tells her that the poetry is all he has to send her; and he remembers bit- terly the “High-sounding names (Peace and Lib- erty) that flaunted on our banners.” Another example of the discourage- ment among poets was a manuscript found under unique circumstances. A Norwegian sailor wrote a letter in poetry form to his wife and threw it sealed in a glass bottle into the North Atlantic shortly before the ship sank from torpedo wounds. A Erench- Canadian fisherman found the bottle weeks later somewhere off Newfound- land and sent it to the Government of Canada. The poem, translated into English, shows the author’s despair that a sailor’s life is merely food for an in- satiable sea. He urges his wife to take his pay, his parents, and to forget him 31