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Siegfried Sassoon

Siegfried Sassoon

1886–1967 · lived 80 years -- --

Siegfried Sassoon was an English poet and soldier, renowned for his raw and often brutal war poetry written during World War I. His work vividly depicted the horrors of trench warfare, starkly contrasting with the patriotic fervor of the time. Sassoon's poems are characterized by their directness, anger, and profound sense of disillusionment, making him a prominent voice against the romanticization of conflict. He later explored themes of loss, faith, and the complexities of human relationships in his post-war writings.

n. 1886-09-08, Matfield · m. 1967-09-01, Heytesbury

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What the Captain Said at the Point-to-Point

I’ve had a good bump round; my little horse
Refused the brook first time,
Then jumped it prime;
And ran out at the double,
But of course
There’s always trouble at a double:
And then—I don’t know how
It was—he turned it up
At that big, hairy fence before the plough;
And some young silly pup
(I don’t know which),
Near as a toucher knocked me into the ditch;
But we finished full of running, and quite sound:
And anyhow I’ve had a good bump round.
Read full poem
Bio

Identification and basic context

Siegfried Loraine Sassoon was an English poet and soldier. He was born in 1886 and died in 1967. His family was of Anglo-Jewish and English descent. Sassoon was born into a wealthy family, which provided him with a privileged upbringing. He was a British subject and wrote primarily in English.

Childhood and education

Sassoon was the second of three sons born to Alfred Ezra Sassoon and Theresa Olga Cecily Torrens. His father was from the prominent Sassoon banking family. His mother, known as 'Lisa', was of Persian Jewish and English background. He was educated at Marlborough College and later attended Clare College, Cambridge, though he did not take a degree. He spent much of his early adult life hunting, playing cricket, and writing poetry, living off his inheritance.

Literary trajectory

Sassoon began writing poetry in his early twenties. His initial works were largely Georgian in style, characterized by pastoral themes and a gentle lyricism. However, his experiences in World War I profoundly altered his perspective and poetic output. After serving on the Western Front and witnessing the brutal realities of trench warfare firsthand, his poetry became a powerful instrument of protest and disillusionment. He gained significant recognition for his stark, angry, and honest depictions of the war. He published numerous collections throughout his life, evolving from romantic ideals to profound social and spiritual commentary.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Sassoon's most famous works include the collections *The Old Huntsman and Other Poems* (1917), *Counter-Attack and Other Poems* (1918), and *Picture-Show* (1919). His war poetry is characterized by its directness, irony, and savage indignation, often using vivid imagery to convey the physical and psychological toll of conflict. Themes such as the futility of war, the suffering of soldiers, the hypocrisy of politicians, and the loss of innocence are central. His style evolved from the traditional forms of his early work to a more forceful and direct address in his war poems, often employing sharp contrasts and satirical tones. He experimented with rhythm and meter to enhance the impact of his verse. Later works explored more personal and spiritual themes, moving away from overt political protest.

Cultural and historical context

Sassoon lived through the tumultuous period of World War I, which served as a pivotal catalyst for his literary output. He was associated with the Georgian poets at the beginning of his career but became a leading voice of anti-war poetry, often seen as a precursor to the disillusionment of later modernist writers. His public denunciation of the war effort, including his famous speech at the Houses of Parliament in 1917, placed him at odds with the prevailing patriotic sentiment and military establishment. He was part of a literary milieu that included figures like Robert Graves and Wilfred Owen.

Personal life

Sassoon's personal life was marked by significant events and relationships. His mother's death when he was young had a lasting impact. His military service in World War I was a defining period, leading to injuries and profound psychological trauma. He married Hester Gatty in 1933, with whom he had a son, David Sassoon. Their marriage eventually ended. Sassoon's close friendships, notably with Wilfred Owen, were crucial, as was his later relationship with the poet and psychologist Dr. Stephen Tomlinson. His experiences, including his periods of disillusionment and search for meaning, informed his later poetry and his eventual conversion to Catholicism.

Recognition and reception

Sassoon received considerable recognition during his lifetime, particularly for his war poetry, which was seen as a vital counterpoint to official narratives of the conflict. He was awarded the Military Cross for bravery in action. His work was highly regarded by critics and the public alike for its emotional honesty and powerful indictment of war. While his reputation as a war poet has remained enduring, critical analysis has also focused on the depth and complexity of his later, more introspective works.

Influences and legacy

Sassoon was influenced by poets such as William Morris and Thomas Hardy. His own work, particularly his unflinching portrayal of war, profoundly influenced subsequent generations of war poets and writers who sought to grapple with the realities of conflict. His legacy lies in his courageous articulation of disillusionment and his contribution to a more realistic and critical mode of poetic expression. He remains a central figure in the study of WWI literature.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Sassoon's poetry is often interpreted as a powerful testament to the human cost of war and a scathing critique of the political and social forces that perpetrate it. Critics have analyzed the tension between his initial romantic sensibilities and the harsh realism imposed by his wartime experiences. His later work is explored for its exploration of faith, doubt, and the search for spiritual solace in the aftermath of trauma. The evolution of his poetic voice from anger to a more reflective and sometimes elegiac tone is a key area of critical discussion.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his reputation as a fierce critic of war, Sassoon was a decorated soldier who displayed considerable bravery. He was known for his passion for hunting and country life before the war, which starkly contrasts with his later pacifist leanings. A significant event was his intentional self-wounding and subsequent declaration against the war at the Houses of Parliament, which led to him being sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital, where he met Wilfred Owen. His diaries and letters provide rich material for understanding his complex personality and creative process.

Death and memory

Siegfried Sassoon died of a heart attack in 1967 at the age of 80. His death marked the end of an era for English poetry. He is remembered as one of the foremost poets of the First World War and a significant voice in 20th-century literature. His works continue to be read, studied, and performed, ensuring his memory and the power of his protest endure.

Poems

73

Daybreak In a Garden

I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin,
When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked:
I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct,
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day.
White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;
The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken;
And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may,
And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.
117

At Daybreak

I listen for him through the rain,
And in the dusk of starless hours
I know that he will come again;
Loth was he ever to forsake me:
He comes with glimmering of flowers
And stir of music to awake me.
Spirit of purity, he stands
As once he lived in charm and grace:
I may not hold him with my hands,
Nor bid him stay to heal my sorrow;
Only his fair, unshadowed face
Abides with me until to-morrow.
98

Morning Express

Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white,
The travellers stand in pools of wintry light,
Offering themselves to morn’s long, slanting arrows.
The train’s due; porters trundle laden barrows.
The train steams in, volleying resplendent clouds
Of sun-blown vapour. Hither and about,
Scared people hurry, storming the doors in crowds.
The officials seem to waken with a shout,
Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans
Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans.
Boys, indolent-eyed, from baskets leaning back,
Question each face; a man with a hammer steals
Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack
Touches and tests, and listens to the wheels.
Guard sounds a warning whistle, points to the clock
With brandished flag, and on his folded flock
Claps the last door: the monster grunts: ‘Enough!’
Tightening his load of links with pant and puff.
Under the arch, then forth into blue day,
Glide the processional windows on their way,
And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease
To view the world like kings taking the seas
in prosperous weather: drifting banners tell
Their progress to the counties; with them goes
The clamour of their journeying; while those
Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell.
100

To a Very Wise Man

I
Fires in the dark you build; tall quivering flames
In the huge midnight forest of the unknown.
Your soul is full of cities with dead names,
And blind-faced, earth-bound gods of bronze and stone
Whose priests and kings and lust-begotten lords
Watch the procession of their thundering hosts,
Or guard relentless fanes with flickering swords
And wizardry of ghosts.
II
In a strange house I woke; heard overhead
Hastily-thudding feet and a muffled scream...
(Is death like that?) ... I quaked uncomforted,
Striving to frame to-morrow in a dream
Of woods and sliding pools and cloudless day.
(You know how bees come into a twilight room
From dazzling afternoon, then sail away
Out of the curtained gloom.)
III
You understand my thoughts; though, when you think,
You’re out beyond the boundaries of my brain.
I’m but a bird at dawn that cries ‘chink, chink’—
A garden-bird that warbles in the rain.
And you’re the flying-man, the speck that steers
A careful course far down the verge of day,
Half-way across the world. Above the years
You soar ... Is death so bad? ... I wish you’d say.
119

Dream-Forest

Where sunshine flecks the green,
Through towering woods my way
Goes winding all the day.
Scant are the flowers that bloom
Beneath the bosky screen
And cage of golden gloom.
Few are the birds that call,
Shrill-voiced and seldom seen.
Where silence masters all,
And light my footsteps fall,
The whispering runnels only
With blazing noon confer;
And comes no breeze to stir
The tangled thickets lonely.
117

Counter-Attack

We’d gained our first objective hours before
While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes,
Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.
Things seemed all right at first. We held their line,
With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed,
And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench.
The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs
High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps
And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,
Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;
And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,
Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime.
And then the rain began,—the jolly old rain!
A yawning soldier knelt against the bank,
Staring across the morning blear with fog;
He wondered when the Allemands would get busy;
And then, of course, they started with five-nines
Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud.
Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst
Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell,
While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke.
He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear,
Sick for escape,—loathing the strangled horror
And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead.
An officer came blundering down the trench:
‘Stand-to and man the fire-step!’ On he went...
Gasping and bawling, ‘Fire-step ... counter-attack!’
Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right
Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left;
And stumbling figures looming out in front.
‘O Christ, they’re coming at us!’ Bullets spat,
And he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire...
And started blazing wildly ... then a bang
Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out
To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked
And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom,
Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans...
Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned,
Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed.
115

A Wanderer

When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares
And all that irked him in his bound employ,
Once more become a vagrom-hearted boy,
He moves to roundelays and jocund airs;
Loitering with dusty harvestmen, he shares
Old ale and sunshine; or, with maids half-coy,
Pays court to shadows; fools himself with joy,
Shaking a leg at junketings and fairs.
Sometimes, returning down his breezy miles,
A snatch of wayward April he will bring,
Piping the daffodilly that beguiles
Foolhardy lovers in the surge of spring.
And then once more by lanes and field-path stiles
Up the green world he wanders like a king.
87

A Child's Prayer

For Morn, my dome of blue,
For Meadows, green and gay,
And Birds who love the twilight of the leaves,
Let Jesus keep me joyful when I pray.
For the big Bees that hum
And hide in bells of flowers;
For the winding roads that come
To Evening’s holy door,
May Jesus bring me grateful to his arms,
And guard my innocence for evermore.
97

Noah

When old Noah stared across the floods,
Sky and water melted into one
Looking-glass of shifting tides and sun.
Mountain-tops were few: the ship was foul:
All the morn old Noah marvelled greatly
At this weltering world that shone so stately,
Drowning deep the rivers and the plains.
Through the stillness came a rippling breeze;
Noah sighed, remembering the green trees.
Clear along the morning stooped a bird,—
Lit beside him with a blossomed sprig.
Earth was saved; and Noah danced a jig.
95

The Dug-out

Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled,
And one arm bent across your sullen, cold,
Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,
Deep-shadowed from the candle's guttering gold;
And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;
Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head...
You are too young to fall asleep for ever;
And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
84

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