Ποίηση στον Α' Παγκόσμιο Πόλεμο
Ποίηση του Α’ Παγκοσμίου Πολέμου
Στ' όνομα του τέλειου ψηλού μετώπου
στ' όνομα των ματιών που κοιτάζω
και του στόματος που φιλώ
Για σήμερα και για πάντα.
Στ' όνομα της θαμμένης ελπίδας
Στ' ονομα των δακρύων μέσα στη νύχτα
Στ' όνομα των φυτών που φέρνουν γέλιο
Στ' όνομα του γέλιου που φέρνει φόβο.
Στ' όνομα του γέλιου κάτω στο δρόμο
Της γλύκας που δένει τα χέρια μας
Στ' όνομα της οπώρας σαν σκεπάζει το λουλούδι
Σε όμορφη γη και καρπερή.
Στ' όνομα των ανθρώπων που σαπίζουνε στη φυλακή
Στ' όνομα των εξορισμένων γυναικών
Στ'όνομα όλων των συντρόφων μας
Που μαρτύρησαν και σφαγιάστηκαν
Για να μη δεχτούν τον ίσκιο.
Πρέπει να στραγγίξουμε την ορμή
και να σηκώσουμε το ξίφος
Για να φυλάξουμε την ιερή εικόνα
Των αθώων που κυνηγήθηκαν παντού
Και που παντού θα θριαμβεύσουν.
ΠΩΛ ΕΛΥΑΡ (ΜΕΤΑΦΡΑΣΗ: Γ. ΚΑΡΑΒΑΣΙΛΗΣ)
ΠΩΛ ΕΛΥΑΡ: Γάλλος ποιητής (1895 - 1952 ). Ενώ συνεχιζόταν ο Α παγκόσμιος πόλεμος, φανέρωσε τις φιλειρηνικές του πεποιθήσεις με την ποιητική συλλογή Καθήκον και ανησυχία (1917). Ανήκε στην ομάδα των γάλλων ποιητών, που ίδρυσαν το κίνημα του υπερρεαλισμού(1924). Αποφασιστική επίδραση στο έργο του, άσκησε ο Ισπανικός εμφύλιος πόλεμος. Η ανθρώπινη δυστυχία, η ήττα των δημοκρατικών δυνάμεων επηρέασαν επίσης πολύ την ποίησή του. Σε κάποιο έργο του γράφει: "ποιητής είναι περισσότερο εκείνος που εμπνέει, παρά εκείνος που εμπνέεται".
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
"How to Die"
Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.
You'd think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they've been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
"Dulce et Decorum Est "
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Herbert Read (1893-1968)
"The Happy Warrior"
His wild heart beats with painful sobs,
His strin'd hands clench an ice-cold rifle,
His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue,
His wide eyes search unconsciously.
He cannot shriek.
Bloody saliva
Dribbles down his shapeless jacket.
I saw him stab
And stab again
A well-killed Boche.
This is the happy warrior,
This is he...
W.N.Hodgson (1893-1916)
"Before Action"
By all the glories of the day
And the cool evening's benison,
By that last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills where day was done,
By beauty lavisghly outpoured
And blessings carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
Make me a solider, Lord.
By all of man's hopes and fears,
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavor that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
Make me a man, O Lord.
I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say goodbye to all of this;--
By all delights that I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.
Wilfred Gibson (1878-1962)
"Back"
They ask me where I've been,
And what I've done and seen.
But what can I reply
Who know it wasn't I,
But someone just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Killed men in foreign lands...
Though I must bear the blame,
Because he bore my name.