I saw a notice a couple of weeks ago announcing the
anniversary of the death of Wilfred Owen, the British war poet. I asked Thriller
Guy if he thought he could write a blog entry about poetry and it’s place in
the thriller writing business. We all know TG is One Tough Hombre, but at this
suggestion he went and hid in the closet, afraid that I would spill the beans
about his writing a poem or two every once in awhile. He’s afraid he might
loose his battlefield cred.
Ridiculous. I pointed out to TG that many
traditional warriors I have known were poetry fans, particularly of Owen’s
poetry. Here’s piece about Owen’s death in World War I, 1918.
“In
the days before his death, Owen had been excited because he knew the war was
almost over. The Germans were retreating and the French had joyfully welcomed
the British troops. In his last letter to his mother, Owens wrote: "It is
a great life. I am more oblivious than yourself, dear Mother, of the ghastly
glimmering of the guns outside, and the hollow crashing of the shells. Of this
I am certain: you could not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as
surround me here." A few days later, he was trying to get his men across a
canal in the early morning hours when they were attacked by enemy fire, and
Owen was fatally wounded. The war ended the following week.”
I
have suggested elsewhere that a good way to start one’s writing day is to read
a poem before beginning the day’s work. I have found that whatever one reads,
fiction or non-fiction, before one begins, can influence the style of the work
that comes after. Maybe not overtly, but at least subtly, and the stylistic
mannerisms can hang on for longer than one might suppose. Of course this can be
“fixed” in rewrites, but it’s better to go into the work as clean as possible.
This suggests that a good way to start is to read nothing at all, but TG and I
read the newspaper at breakfast first thing in the morning so my/our brain is
already tainted when I sit down to work. My solution is to read a poem before
beginning. The easiest way to do this is to sign up for Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac which comes in your email and begins every day with a poem. Because they’re the
ones choosing the poem, you don’t have to worry about finding one on your own.
Another benefit is if you do like a particular poem, you can buy or lookup
other work by the same poet.
You
might think that you would then be in danger of picking up a particular poetic
style that would ride on the back of your own words when you start to work, but
I have found that this doesn’t happen. But there is a particular sensibility
that does crossover, and that is a good thing. I can’t exactly name what this
effect is, but it’s not harmful and, I have found, gives a sort of ease that
works in your favor, especially when you are starting out the day. And if you
warriors out there are afraid that your savage prose will be enfeebled by the
poetry, you can always read the many war poets who have written throughout
history. A good place to begin is with the site http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/index.html
Here’s
a bit of Wilfred Owen to get you started: his poem, Dolce et Decorum Est. The Latin title comes from the phrase from
the Roman poet Horace: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” Read
the poem and see how Owen puts the lie to that sentiment. And try reading the
poem before you begin your next day’s writing, or any other poem, to see how it
works for you.
You
can come out of the closet now, Thriller Guy.
Dolce et Decorum Est
Bent
double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed,
coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till
on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And
towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men
marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But
limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk
with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of
gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas!
GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting
the clumsy helmets just in time,
But
someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And
flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim
through the misty panes and thick green light,
As
under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In
all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He
plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If
in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind
the wagon that we flung him in,
And
watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His
hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If
you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come
gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene
as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of
vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My
friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To
children ardent for some desperate glory,
The
old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro
patria mori.
