Richard Aldington has been home on leave, and busy–not so much with his new officer’s identity as with the early stages of an extramarital affair with Dorothy Yorke, a young member of the circle now centered on D.H. Lawrence and H.D., Aldington’s wife. Aldington is writing quite a bit, as well, poems which reflect not only his profound self regard and far shallower talent but also the doubly overheated atmosphere of a soldier home on leave and a man in the grips of a new sexual passion. Today, a century back, he sent some of the poems–not war poems, and not particularly modernist, but quite sexually explicit–to his American patroness and publisher, Amy Lowell. And then there is the matter of last year’s war poems, a few of which we have looked at here…
2 January 1918
44 Mecklenburgh Square,
My dear Amy,
Hilda sent me on your charming letter this morning and I was most happy to get it. We had your cheery cable on Christmas day—I was at home—and were delighted that you had thought of us. After I passed my examinations I had nearly a month’s leave. It was a wonderful time, so much was compressed into those few weeks. It was marvellous after those other days.
I have my commission now and am expecting to be back in the trenches in a month or six weeks. So probably I’ll be gone before I can hear from you again. I will try and send you just a word before I go. Unhappily, I feel I mustn’t send you any details about my military life—the rules are very stringent and I don’t want to say anything I shouldn’t…
I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you—after the war I’ll spin you more soldier’s yarns than you’ll care to hear!
I am thinking of collecting all my war poems—I have about 60 or 70—into a book. Do you think the U.S.A. would care for them? They are not popular—I mean they are bitter, anguish-stricken, realistic, not like Brooke or Noyes or anybody like that. They are stern truth, and I have hesitated about publishing them…
There is a lot of gamesmanship here. New officers may be more inclined to follow the letter of the law, but his zealous secrecy about not much at all (he’s not even in France) should set Lowell’s eyes rolling, and his aw-shucks “hesitations” as well.
Now for the name-dropping:
I am translating Anacreon in camp—I find I can’t do really good work in a camp, so I am doing these light Greek things, just to keep the “feel” of literature. Great poetry—Shelley and Euripides and Dante—moves me so terribly that I cannot bear it. I feel choked. For this reason I had to give up those burning passionate poems of Meleager. They left me unnerved & unstrung. I am reading a little Dante, but only a very, very little each day—it exhausts me with emotion. He understands so wonderfully the piercing passion of love—the mystic exaltation which is prolonged beyond the contact of the flesh. Do you remember the two cantos towards the end of the Purgatorio where he meets Bia after those years of absence and where Virgil leaves him? It seems to me to put most modern poetry utterly out of count. It is like Plato’s Symposium, but more tortured, more like ourselves in its bitterness & intensity.
Aldington has been very busy, and much of this–the poems as well as the translations–will soon be published. But his poems lately have been very unlike his earlier ones, at once besotted hand-wavingly dramatic in a manner not quite befitting the cerebral Modernism favored by Lowell. A single stanza of a poem written this month, a century back, should give the rough idea:
Go your ways, you women, pass and forget us,
We are sick of blood, of the taste and sight of it;
Go now to those who bleed not and to the old men,
They will give you beautiful love in answer!
But we, we are alone, we are desolate,
Thinning the blood of our brothers with weeping,
Crying for our brothers, the men we fought with,
Crying out, mourning them, alone with our dead ones;
Praying that our eyes may be blinded
Lest we go mad in a world of scarlet,
Dripping, oozing from the veins of our brothers.
Faced with this, as well as poems clearly about Aldington’s affair with Yorke, Lowell will take the unusual step of writing to H.D. (i.e. Aldington’s wife Hilda Doolittle) to ask her advice…
And after all that, here is a very strange little anecdote from Carrol Carstairs
I was left behind until the new unit had taken over the billets and found them “all correct.”
It was dark when I left for Arras. Nothing moved on the road. I had to walk—five or six or seven miles? A frequent look over my shoulder as I stumbled on revealed nothing. I moved on automatically, breathing hard and painfully. I would scarcely know when I had reached Arras. There wouldn’t be many lights. Interminable! How could anything take so long. What? Was I asleep? Where am I? Oh, yes, Arras. I must get to Arras. God, but I feel groggy.
Outlying houses, like stragglers, appeared in the gloom, and then I was in Arras itself, walking the streets of a town empty of life but for a private soldier or two. It stood only partially destroyed, but the Hotel de Ville with its fine Gothic façade and the cathedral were among the ruins. I don’t know why I thought of this as I sought Battalion Headquarters. The word periwinkle also suddenly occurred without my associating the name with its meaning.
“Periwinkle!” I said out loud. “Periwinkle!” I announced as I entered the officers’ mess.
“Periwinkle?” questioned Alec Agar-Robartes.
“Well, possibly not,” I replied. . . .
References and Footnotes
- A Generation Missing, 148-9. According to a note on page 235, this was tonight/tomorrow, a century back. ↩