All my creative pursuits.
On a trip to Austria in 2022, we visited the 11th century fortress at Kufstein. At a high point overlooking the river and the town nestled below, the ‘palas’ (residential quarters) and the ‘Bergfried’ (fortified tower) would have kept watch over the Lower Inn Valley in the province of Tyrol/
One of my favorite War Poets, Siegfried Sassoon at first an enthusiastic soldier, soon became disillusioned with the horror and futility of the fighting on the Western Front. His younger brother Hamo died in 1915 at Gallipoli and this loss no doubt profoundly contributed to his change of heart. Here is my portrait of Siegfried Sassoon and his poem: Glory of Women, written in 1917. It is a response to the way women (and the civilian public in general) wish their men to go off to the war and be heroes.
The Glory Of Women by Siegfried Sassoon
You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed.
You can’t believe that British troops ‘retire’
When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses—blind with blood.
Oh German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
After a lengthy pause, I am returning to the project of sketching portraits of the War Poets of The Great War. It’s been 3 years (!) since I did my sketch of Robert Graves, but I’m back with a portrait of Edmund Blunden, whom I featured on the blog once before. This time I’m including one of his other poems but please do follow the link to the previous Blunden post to read Thiepval Wood and the explanation of it.
Here is my sketch and the photo I used for reference (via Wikipedia).
Les Halles d’Ypres by Edmund Blunden
A tangle of iron rods and spluttered beams,
On brickwork past the skill of a mason to mend:
A wall with a bright blue poster—odd as dreams
Is the city’s latter end.
A shapeless obelisk looms Saint Martin’s spire,
Now a lean aiming-mark for the German guns;
And the Cloth Hall crouches beside, disfigured with fire,
The glory of Flanders once.
Only the four square tower still bears the trace
Of beauty that was, and strong embattled age,
And gilded ceremonies and pride of place—
Before this senseless rage.
And still you may see (below the noon serene,
The mysterious, changeless vault of sharp blue light),
The pigeons come to the tower, and flaunt and preen,
And flicker in playful flight.
Meg Sorick, Author/Artist 