Fragments of me, disjointed
Reflected and repeated
The effect is disorienting
And for a moment I forget
Who do I think I am?
Walls up against the world
Vulnerability safely disguised
Behind a mask of self confidence
Beneath an elaborate costume
Stumble disoriented, across the stage
Infinity mirrors and madness
Reach out a hand to steady
Not expecting to find yours
Firm and strong, but tender
Who do you think you are?
Climbing these walls
And tearing away this disguise?
And for the moment I remember
It was you who gathered the fragments
And put me back together
Header image: Infinity Mirror Room – Yayoi Kusama
This poem is by Siegfried Sassoon is from the collection Men Who March Away, edited by I.M. Parsons some fifty years after World War I. I have in my possession a biography of Sassoon which is climbing close to the top of my to-read pile, so watch for more about that fascinating War Poet. Meanwhile, here is one of his poems and a little background. In his introduction to the collection, Parsons writes about The Kiss:
“The Sassoon poem is particularly interesting, not only for its technical accomplishment and for the terrifying image in the final line, but because in spirit it is so completely alien to the author’s whole attitude to war. For that reason, Mr. Sassoon was understandably reluctant to let me reprint it, fearing that it might be taken as meant seriously –as a ‘fire-eating’ poem.”
Sassoon himself said, “I originally wrote it as a sort of exercise … After being disgusted by the babarities of the famous bayonet-fighting lecture. To this day I don’t know what made me write it, for I never felt I could have stuck a bayonet into anyone, even in self defense. The difficulty is that it doesn’t show any sign of satire.”
To these I turn, in these I trust–
Brother Lead and Sister Steel,
To his blind power I make appeal,
I guard her beauty, clean from rust.
He spins and burns and loves the air,
And splits a skull to win my praise;
But up the nobly marching days
She glimmers naked, cold and fair.
Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this:
That in good fury he may feel
The body where he set his heel
Quail from your downward, darting kiss.
Dreams are but a temporary refuge
For they evaporate upon waking
Like the steam from a teacup
When you walk outside
In the middle of January
Fortunately you can always
Make more tea…