For once, I'm on Motion's side. What's wrong with using found stuff? it's
a near-cousin to intertextuality.
On Mon, 9 Nov 2009 18:14:42 +1100, Max Richards
<[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>An Equal Voice
>In this 'found poem' for Remembrance Day, Andrew Motion stitches
together the
>words of several generations of shellshocked soldiers from the first
world war
>to the present
>
>Andrew Motion
>guardian.co.uk, Saturday 7 November 2009
>
>Doctors, historians and other experts have documented the effects of
shellshock
>– thanks to them, we know that the term covers a multitude of
ailments, and is
>the result of far more than just shells going off. But, as Ben Shephard
wrote in
>his history of medical psychiatry, the people who have suffered from it
have
>often been too ill to speak. They have been left out of the record. I
wanted to
>hear from them. This is a "found" poem, a stitching together of the
voices of
>shellshocked people. Their words have been taken from a variety of
sources, from
>the first world war to the present, and are presented in the poem in
roughly
>chronological order. There's a fragment of Siegfried Sassoon in there,
but most
>are from unknown soldiers. Together, they give a sense of moving
through time to
>establish what is horribly recurrent about this affliction. It is a poem
by
>them, orchestrated by me.
>
>An Equal Voice
>
>"We hear more from doctors than patients. However hard he tries, the
historian
>cannot even the account, cannot give the patients an equal voice,
because most
>of them chose not to recount their experiences."
>from A War of Nerves, by Ben Shephard
>
>
>War from behind the lines is a dizzy jumble.
>
>Revolving chairs, stuffy offices, dry as dust
>
>reports, blueprints one day and the next –
>
>with the help of a broken-down motor car
>
>and a few gallons of petrol – marching men
>
>with sweat-stained faces and shining eyes,
>
>horses straining and plunging at the guns,
>
>little clay-pits opening beneath each step,
>
>and piles of bloody clothes and leggings
>
>outside the canvas door of a field hospital.
>
>At the end of the week there is no telling
>
>whether you spent Tuesday going over
>
>the specifications for a possible laundry
>
>or skirting the edges of hell in an automobile.
>
>*
>
>There were some cases of nervous collapse
>
>as the whistle blew on the first day of battle.
>
>In general, however, it is perfectly astonishing
>
>and terrifying how bravely the men fight.
>
>From my position on rising ground I watched
>
>one entire brigade advancing in line after line,
>
>dressed as smartly as if they were on parade,
>
>and not a single man shirked going through
>
>the barrage, or facing the rapid machine-gun
>
>and rifle-fire that finally wiped them all out.
>
>I saw with my own eyes the lines advancing
>
>in such admirable order quickly melt away.
>
>Yet not a man wavered, or broke the ranks,
>
>or made any attempt to turn back again.
>
>*
>
>A soft siffle, high in the air like a distant lark,
>
>or the note of a penny whistle, faint and falling.
>
>But then, with a spiral, pulsing flutter, it grew
>
>to a hissing whirr, landing with ferocious blasts,
>
>with tremendous thumps and then their echoes,
>
>followed by the whine of fragments which cut
>
>into the trees, driving white scars in their trunks
>
>and filling the air with torn shreds of foliage.
>
>The detonation, the flash, the heat of explosion.
>
>And all the while fear, crawling into my heart.
>
>It literally crawled into me. I had set my teeth
>
>steadying myself, but with no success. I clutched
>
>the earth, pressing against it. There was no one
>
>to help me then. O how one loves mother earth.
>
>*
>
>One or two friends stood like granite rocks
>
>round which the seas raged, but very many
>
>other men broke in pieces. Everyone called it
>
>shell-shock, meaning concussion, but shell-
>
>shock is rare. What 90% get is justifiable funk
>
>due to the collapse of the helm of our self-control.
>
>You understand what you see but you cannot think.
>
>Your head is in agony and you want relief for that.
>
>The more you struggle, the more madness creeps
>
>over you. The brain cannot think of anything at all.
>
>I don't ask you what you feel like but I tell you,
>
>because I have been like you. I have been ill as you
>
>and got better. I will teach you, you will get better.
>
>Try and keep on trying what I tell you and you will.
>
>*
>
>The place was full of men whose slumbers were morbid,
>
>titubating shell-shockers with their bizarre paralyses
>
>and stares, their stammers and tremors, their nightmares
>
>and hallucinations, their unstoppable fits and shakings.
>
>Each was back in his doomed shelter, when the panic
>
>and stampede was re-enacted among long-dead faces,
>
>or still caught in the open and under fire. This officer
>
>was quietly feasting with imaginary knives and forks;
>
>that group roamed around clutching Teddy Bears;
>
>one man stripped to his underclothes and proclaimed
>
>himself to be Mahatma Gandhi; another sat cramped
>
>in a corner clutching a champagne cork; one chanted,
>
>with his hands over an imaginary basket of eggs, Lord
>
>have mercy on us, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.
>
>*
>
>I could feel the bullets hit my body. I could feel
>
>myself being hit by gun fire and this is what made me
>
>sit up and scream. What I saw round me were others
>
>walking with the bent and contorted spines of old age,
>
>or moving without their lifting their legs, by vibrating limbs
>
>on the ground. All equally unfortunate, filled with sadness.
>
>Dead friends gazed at them. Rats emerged from the cavities
>
>of bodies. Then came trembling and losing control of legs:
>
>you never dreamt of such gaits. One fellow cannot hold
>
>his head still or even stand except with incessant jerking.
>
>Instantly the man across the aisle follows suit. In this way
>
>the infection spreads in widening circles until the whole
>
>ward is jerking and twitching, all in their hospital blues,
>
>their limbs shaking and flapping like the tails of dogs.
>
>*
>
>Naturally it can save a good deal of time if men,
>
>before battle, have pictures from the Hate Room hung
>
>in their minds of things the enemy has already done,
>
>waiting to be remembered. Starving people for instance
>
>and sick people, and dead people in ones and in heaps.
>
>If that proves ineffective, then treatment is post facto.
>
>Compulsory mourning is no longer recommended
>
>whereby the hospital confines a man for three days
>
>alone in a darkened room and orders him to grieve
>
>for dead comrades. But other cures must be attempted,
>
>and in some cases men wish to return to do their duty.
>
>See, your eyes are already heavier. Heavier and heavier.
>
>You are going into a deep, deep sleep. A deep, far sleep.
>
>You are far asleep. You are fast sleep. You have no fear.
>
>*
>
>I am quiet and healthy but cannot bear being away
>
>from England. I have been away too long and seen
>
>too many things. My best friend was killed beside me.
>
>I have a wife and two children and I have done enough.
>
>I thought my nerves were better but they are worse.
>
>The first fight, the fight with my own self, has ended.
>
>I may be ready to fight again but I am not willing.
>
>I am in urgent need of outdoor work and would be glad
>
>to accept a position as a gardener at a nominal salary.
>
>My best friend walked back into my room this morning,
>
>shimmering white and transparent. I saw him clearly.
>
>He stood at the foot of my bed and looked right at me.
>
>I asked him, What do you want? What do you want?
>
>Eventually I woke up and of course I was by myself.
>
>
>
>
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