Edmund Charles Blunden was commissioned as a second lieutenant into the British Army's Royal Sussex Regiment during September of 1915. He served on the Western Front for the rest of the war, taking part in the actions at Ypres, the Somme, and Passchendaele. With the exception of being gassed in October 1917, he managed to survive nearly two full years on the front line without physical injury. However, he bore the mental scars of his war-time experiences for the rest of his life. In his memoir of the war, Undertones of War, published in 1928, Blunden attributed his survival to his size. A small man, he states this made him "an inconspicuous target."
After he left the army in 1919, he returned to Oxford and resumed the scholarship work he had left when the war began. One of his classmates was fellow poet, author and literary critic, Robert Graves, and the two developed a close friendship. Blunden was also a lifelong friend of Siegfried Sassoon.
Blunden ended his literary career with two years as Oxford’s Professor of Poetry, a position also held by Graves. He died on January 20, 1974.
After he left the army in 1919, he returned to Oxford and resumed the scholarship work he had left when the war began. One of his classmates was fellow poet, author and literary critic, Robert Graves, and the two developed a close friendship. Blunden was also a lifelong friend of Siegfried Sassoon.
Blunden ended his literary career with two years as Oxford’s Professor of Poetry, a position also held by Graves. He died on January 20, 1974.
1916 seen from 1921
Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day,
I sit in solitude and only hear
Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay,
The lost intensities of hope and fear;
In those old marshes yet the rifles lie,
On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags,
The very books I read are there—and I
Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags
Its wounded length from those sad streets of war
Into green places here, that were my own;
But now what once was mine is mine no more,
I seek such neighbours here and I find none.
With such strong gentleness and tireless will
Those ruined houses seared themselves in me,
Passionate I look for their dumb story still,
And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.
I rise up at the singing of a bird
And scarcely knowing slink along the lane,
I dare not give a soul a look or word
Where all have homes and none’s at home in vain:
Deep red the rose burned in the grim redoubt,
The self-sown wheat around was like a flood,
In the hot path the lizard lolled time out,
The saints in broken shrines were bright as blood.
Sweet Mary’s shrine between the sycamores!
There we would go, my friend of friends and I,
And snatch long moments from the grudging wars,
Whose dark made light intense to see them by.
Shrewd bit the morning fog, the whining shots
Spun from the wrangling wire: then in warm swoon
The sun hushed all but the cool orchard plots,
We crept in the tall grass and slept till noon.
I sit in solitude and only hear
Long silent laughters, murmurings of dismay,
The lost intensities of hope and fear;
In those old marshes yet the rifles lie,
On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags,
The very books I read are there—and I
Dead as the men I loved, wait while life drags
Its wounded length from those sad streets of war
Into green places here, that were my own;
But now what once was mine is mine no more,
I seek such neighbours here and I find none.
With such strong gentleness and tireless will
Those ruined houses seared themselves in me,
Passionate I look for their dumb story still,
And the charred stub outspeaks the living tree.
I rise up at the singing of a bird
And scarcely knowing slink along the lane,
I dare not give a soul a look or word
Where all have homes and none’s at home in vain:
Deep red the rose burned in the grim redoubt,
The self-sown wheat around was like a flood,
In the hot path the lizard lolled time out,
The saints in broken shrines were bright as blood.
Sweet Mary’s shrine between the sycamores!
There we would go, my friend of friends and I,
And snatch long moments from the grudging wars,
Whose dark made light intense to see them by.
Shrewd bit the morning fog, the whining shots
Spun from the wrangling wire: then in warm swoon
The sun hushed all but the cool orchard plots,
We crept in the tall grass and slept till noon.
A Blaze of Poppies, Jennifer Bohnhoff's novel about World War I, is available on Amazon and directly from the author.
