Poetry of War

I'm in England, congested and tired. So this will be brief. Much has happened since my last post, in my life, my community and the world.

But I will now go back in history. I'm currently writing an essay on the poetic contributions of women in the World Wars. It is difficult for me to turn objective, analytical eyes on these poems-- to dissect these women's efforts to pull something, no matter how small, together when everything around them was in shambles. But that is what I am doing. And it breaks my heart. I have not stated this on this blog before, though I'm sure by now it is quite obvious, but I am a pacifist. I believe in non-violent reconciliation. It is not easy or simple, and often times it is not logical by the standards of many. I understand this, and do not seek a debate, just to preface what I have to share tonight.

Reading the poems of women faced with war, some of them pacifists, many of them not, I lose myself to their pain and the little hopes they tell themselves to believe. I lose myself in wanting them to believe for the sake of their sanity and perseverance that what their men are doing is just. And I lose myself in the sadness that I know these men are broken (I'm also reading poetry by men). This makes me want to visit the places where these poets walked and lived, like St. Giles (I walk there every day) where May Cannan was born and raised, and Somersville College where Vera Brittain visited friends after receiving news her fiancee, Roland, had been killed at war. What will happen if I go there, stop there for a moment? Will I be able to walk away?