You-all, I am reading one of this poet's biographies, and thought I'd share part of a letter he wrote to a friend.
He was in Germany, having gone there to learn the language, and was alone and homesick. I don't think I've ever read anything so...vivid. Oh, he just felt so much!
-----------------------------------------------------------

The worst of solitude--or the best--is, that one begins poking at one's own soul, examining it, cutting the soft and rotten parts away. And where's one to stop? Have you ever had, at lunch or dinner, an over-ripe pear or apple, and, determined to make the best of it, gone on
slicing off the squashy bits? You may imagine me, in München, at a German lunch with Life, discussing hard, and cutting away at the bad parts of the dessert. 'Oh!' says Life, courteous as ever, 'I'm sure you've got a bad Soul there. Please don't go on with it! Leave it, and take another! I'm so sorry!' But, knowing I've taken the last, and polite anyhow, 'Oh no, please!' I say, scraping away, 'it's really all right. It's only a little gone, here and there--on the outside...
There's plenty that's quite good. I'm quite enjoying it. You always have such delightful Souls! ...' And after a minute, when there's a circle of messy brown round my plate, and in the centre a rather woebegone brown-white thin, shapeless scrap, the centre of the thing, Life breaks in again, seeing my plight, 'Oh, but you can't touch any of that! It's bad right through! I'm sure Something must have Got In to it! Let me ring for another! There is sure to be some in the Larder...' But it won't do, you know. So I rather ruefully reply, 'Ye-s, I'm afraid it is impossible. But I won't have another, thanks. I don't really want one at all. I only took it out of mere greed...and to have something to do. Thank you, I've had quite enough. Such excellent meat and pudding! I've done splendidly...But to go on with our conversation. About Literature--you were saying, I think...?' and
so the incident's at an end.

He does get to the nub of things, doesn't he, Jackie? I know just exactly what he means and how he feels. Mostly we are too busy and self-important to make such an examination, but when we do, does it really alter things - we are what we are and no amount of introspection can do more than alter the superficial details.


Or to put it another way - when the chips are down, the Sole is the sauce of all things. No matter how fast you pedal, you can never ketchup.

Dag Jackie, what a sad paragraph. I admit I do not know who Rubert Brooke is. Can you give me a bit of info?

when the chips are down, the Sole is the sauce of all things. No matter how fast you pedal, you can never ketchup

A blinder, Rhub! Just what I needed after reading that Rupert Brooke. Sorry, I know it's true to human nature, but I don't like to dwell on the "caged animal" syndrome that can set in at certain points in life.

I recall reading some Rupert Brooke that was more inspiring, though still sad. Poignant but not self-mutilating. Have to see if I can track it down, although I'm sure Jackie can find something to fit the bill.

belM, I think Brooke was a First World War poet (same vintage as Wilfred Owen), though I can't swear to that.

Corrections please, Jackie?

I recall reading some Rupert Brooke that was more inspiring, though still sad. Poignant but not self-mutilating. Have to see if I can track it down, although I'm sure Jackie can find something to fit the bill.

Clouds seems to fit that description:

Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majeatic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.

Thanks Max.

Yes, that's exactly the kind of thing - and there's poetry.

belMarduk, he was born in 1887 and died in 1915. That's what I meant in the other thread when I said I mourn for all the poems he never wrote. Here is his most famous:


V. The Soldier



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 concealed;
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.

-------------------------------------------------------

Here is a link to a website about him. If you go to The Collected Poems, click on that photo and you'll see what made me fall the rest of the way in love, which was well on the way already just from reading his works.
http://englishculture.about.com/aboutuk/englishculture/library/weekly/aa091500a.htm

Wilfred Owen was mentioned earlier in the thread. His story is at:

http://englishculture.about.com/aboutuk/englishculture/library/weekly/aa062798.htm

, I think Brooke was a First World War poet (same vintage as Wilfred Owen), though I can't swear to that.

He was exactly that. Try the following for a very good anthology of most of the war poets, including some from Germany and Russia
SILKIN, Jon. The Penguin book of First World War poetry / edited and with
an introduction by Jon Silkin. London : Allen Lane, 1979
ISBN: 0713910917