Robert Lowell - For the Union Dead"Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam."
The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.
Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.
My hand draws back. I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile. One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized
fence on the Boston Common. Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.
Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse,
shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.
Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.
He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.
a greyhound's gentle tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.
He is out of bounds now. He rejoices in man's lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die--
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.
peculiar power to choose life and die--
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.
On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic.
The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year--
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns . . .
grow slimmer and younger each year--
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns . . .
Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."
The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling
over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.
that survived the blast. Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.
Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the blessèd break.
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the blessèd break.
The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.
7 comments:
When I read Lowell's poem I'm as struck by the reference to the Common garage as I am to his observations on integration in Boston at the time.
I remember how crooked the whole thing was and felt it led to some decent reform under Dukakis.
Boston's grown in a number of ways.
Much wonderful imagery, of course, but like most things "modern," an aura of futility, despondency and bitter resentment against life prevails.
If rearranged on the page, the verse would work as well -- or better -- as an elegiac essay. Like much modern verse it is elegant prose divided -- I think artificially -- into stanzas.
A most interesting choice for Memorial Day.
I agree with you completely about the splendor of Saint Gaudens' bronze.
I find myself in total agreement with you Shaw, the bronze relief is both splendid and fitting.
Without a doubt the despondency and futility Free Thinke so aptly detects in the verse is indicative of our times.
Sadly so.
We still called this occasion "Decoration Day" when I was in elementary school. It originated after the Civil War to honor those dead.
Veterans Day was called Armistice Day back then too.
Have we ever given official thanks to those who fought, suffered, bled, died and went broke during the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812?
After the decisive victory won by The Allies in World War Two it seems downright criminal to me that even ONE American has had to die in the many staged Exercises in Futility we've been led to indulge in since for the benefit of Munitions Manufacturers and the International Bankers who play all sides against the middle to our great detriment.
We should all be armed to the teeth to repel foreign invaders and shoot to death anyone who dares intrude on the sanctity of our homes.
Aggressors of any kind deserve nothing less than DEATH.
However, when we are duped into becoming aggressors, ourselves, in the name of some phony, trumped-up "cause" or manufactured international "crisis," our soldiers then become nothing more than victims of the greed and corrupt ambition of the few who own and operate our leaders and dictate our policies for nefarious purposes of the their own behind the scenes.
Even so, a father, son, husband, brother, lover or friend killed in these Wars of Waste and Warped Ambition is no less deserving of our love, respect and reverence than those who died for genuine, noble causes.
Their sacrifice may have been in vain, but as Kipling said in The Charge of the Light Brigade:
"Theirs not to reason why;
Theirs but to do and die."
For that alone they deserve our love, respect and unending support. Courage and sacrifice are still what they are even when tragically -- or diabolically -- misdirected.
May God grant our people -- and ALL people -- access to Truth, and give them the wisdom to act in accord with Truth when at last it becomes known.
We used to call Memorial Day "Decoration Day" because people would go to the cemeteries everywhere and put flowers on the graves of not just war dead but all their departed.
Hardly anyone bothers anymore, so now we call it a day of memorializing.
Armistice Day celebrated the end of the First World War.
You always see monuments to the victors in war, but never to the losers. Go back thousands of years and it's the same. Just like trophies are given to the winners of various events, the monuments are trophies of those victories.
But there's a difference. The winner of a foot race or discus hurl has earned their recognition through hard work and diligence. The winners of a war erect their monuments to the victory that was earned through the suffering and deaths of many others.
If they were unjustly attacked but won out, then they deserve their monuments, their trophies. But there's just as many trophies celebrating attacker's victories, trophies that drip with the blood of millions of victims.
Humans have warred against each other as far back as we can discover, for 10,000 years at least. It's in our nature. I would just point out that the trophies of attackers are just as beautiful to them as the trophies of those who beat back the attackers. It's all a glorification of war regardless of who won or lost.
We put up monuments to tragedies, monuments to victims, monuments to battlefields where thousands died. The most monuments go to the most horrible, the worst horrors of war, and always either point a finger of blame at the attacker who committed the outrage, or crow in victory at the slaughter of the enemy.
War has always been human's way of controlling population. When disease and natural disasters take too long, we arm ourselves and kill each other off that way. War is a very impersonal thing that kills indiscriminately, and the outcomes are more often the result of luck than superior force.
Since we flatly won't exercise birth control to limit our numbers and act like every deformed baby is somehow a sacred life to be protected and preserved in spite of the fact that we are pushing all the other species to extinction with our expanding numbers and wrecking Earth in the process, then I'm for war. Who wins doesn't matter as long as most of us get killed, but I'd far rather prefer to see a new plague wipe most of us out. It would be so much easier on the ecology.
Then we could melt down all those ugly, ostentatious bronze trophies decorating our public buildings and put that metal to good, utilitarian use.
Tennyson, not Kipling, wrote
"Their's is not to reason why
Theirs is but to do and die".
However, Kipling was an imperialist and favored strong military action..to the end that he pulled strings for his son in
WWI:
"at Rudyard's request, John was accepted into the Irish Guards. He was sent to Loos two days into the battle in a reinforcement contingent. He was last seen stumbling through the mud blindly, screaming in agony after an exploding shell ripped his face apart."
Of course you are right about its being Tennyson, BB. How careless of me! I'm sorry. Thank you for reminding me of what I should have remembered.
If I have the story right, however, Kipling's son Jack, who like most young men of his time must have been terribly naive, was extremely eager to fight for his country. Because, like his father, he had poor eyesight and had to wear glasses, he was at first rejected for military service.
At the young man's insistence, however, his father -- somewhat reluctantly -- did use his influence to clear the way for Jack's active participation in the war. The result, as you stated, was tragic.
Jack did not survive the war. I'm not sure that he suffered exactly the hideous fate you described. I only know that he was reported "lost." He never came back, of course. I've never seen the exact condition of his remains described.
Few of the young Englishmen who tried to fight the Germans survived the war. They were absurdly ill prepared for the kind of trench warfare the circumstances demanded.
Are you familiar with Kipling's poem Recessional? It's hardly the utterance of a gung ho, blindly chauvinistic militarist with a brutal conqueror's mentality.
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