She had a name among the children; But no one loved though someone owned Her, locked her out of doors at bedtime And had her kittens duly drowned.…
Phillip Edward Thomas is one of the names on a slate stone in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, which commemorates the sixteen “Great War Poets”. It is alongside the likes of Wilfred Own and Rupert Brooke, so Thomas’s name will therefore be immortalised as a war poet although most of his work was written before he ever went to war. In fact his time at the front was tragically short – he was killed at the Battle of Arras very soon after arriving in France in 1917. Born into a mostly Welsh family in March 1878, Thomas grew up in Lambeth and went to grammar school in Battersea, South London before studying at Lincoln College, Oxford. He married young, while still an under-graduate, and spent his time reviewing books and writing his own stories and poems. He became known as a writer on countryside matters while also writing biographies and worked at the Daily Chronicle in London as a literary critic. He found time to publish a novel in 1913 called The Happy-Go-Lucky Morgans. He had a deep respect for poetry and regularly wrote reviews of it, yet did not take it up seriously himself until 1914 and his first efforts were published under the nom de plume Edward Eastaway. He wrote in a colloquial style, evoking the glories of the English countryside while contemplating the horrors of war that were to come. All of his war poems were written BEFORE he set foot in France and all in a tone of extreme melancholy. Take, for example, This Is No Case Of Petty Right Or Wrong which he penned in 1916. He was considering who is right, who is to blame and clearly seeing the German Kaiser as the hateful villain of the piece: Like so many men of the time he felt compelled to enlist in the Army even though, as a married man of 37, he was not obliged to do so. Thus he joined the Artists Rifles in July 1915. It is generally regarded that he came to his decision having read fellow poet Robert Frost’s great poem The Road Not Taken. He went to France as a commissioned officer of the Royal Garrison Artillery and met his end in curiously tragic circumstances on Easter Monday, April 1917. Having survived the bloody Battle of Arras he stood casually in his trench to light his pipe. A late, random shell burst near to him and the concussive blast wave from it was so strong that the force of it killed him where he stood. Edward Thomas’s body was taken to the Military Cemetery at Agny in France and here he lies amongst the many rows of fallen soldiers. He left behind his wife Helen and two daughters and so consumed by grief was Helen that she sought solace in writings of her own. She published an account of their early years together called As it Was (1926) with a second volume following in 1931 called World Without End.
Phillip Edward Thomas şiirleri
Yes, I remember Adlestrop, The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.…
This ploughman dead in battle slept out of doors Many a frozen night, and merrily Answered staid drinkers, good bedmen, and all bores: "At Mrs Greenland's Hawthorn Bush," said he,…
All day and night, save winter, every weather, Above the inn, the smithy and the shop, The aspens at the cross-roads talk together Of rain, until their last leaves fall from the to…
As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn The lovers disappeared into the wood. I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm That strewed the angle of the fallow, and…
What does it mean? Tired, angry, and ill at ease, No man, woman, or child alive could please Me now. And yet I almost dare to laugh Because I sit and frame an epitaph--…
Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob, Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he Loved horses. He himself was like a cob And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree.…
Thinking of her had saddened me at first, Until I saw the sun on the celandines lie Redoubled, and she stood up like a flame, A living thing, not what before I nursed,…
Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night To be cut down by the sharp axe of light, - Out of the night, two cocks together crow, Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:…
Gone, gone again, May, June, July, And August gone, Again gone by,…
If I should ever by chance grow rich I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch, Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, And let them all to my eldest daughter.…
The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood This Eastertide call into mind the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should Have gathered them and will do never…
I have come to the borders of sleep, The unfathomable deep Forest where all must lose Their way, however straight,…
Like the touch of rain she was On a man's flesh and hair and eyes When the joy of walking thus Has taken him by surprise:…
No one so much as you Loves this my clay, Or would lament as you Its dying day.…
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