There are
pitfalls in doing what I do. One of them is the tendency to prose. The
religious illiteracy and malpractice of our days has made of the collared caste
patient explainers – ‘now we do this’, ‘this symbolizes that’. We are caught in
a decaying ritual system which we are feebly trying to reanimate with more
words and yet more words. We do not push down deep; we are afraid of breaking
ribs.
And so I took
time for poetry this morning: In Parenthesis, by David Jones. Years ago
I read another work of his, which my father bought for me second-hand from an
online antiquarian – The Anathémata. Fragments from that poem shot
through my head when I attended my first Mass on the feast of Christ the King.
In
Parenthesis conveys
the experiences of being a young soldier in the First World War. Well, one set
of experiences, selected and stylized, but not necessarily polished. It comes
with a recommendation from T.S. Eliot, who tells us, ‘As for the writer
himself, he is a Londoner of Welsh and English descent. He is decidedly a
Briton. He is also a Roman Catholic, and he is a painter who has painted some
beautiful pictures and designed some beautiful lettering. All these facts about
him are important.’
One of the
fascinating things about Jones is that he does not seek to make himself
intelligible. He writes free verse, often in paragraphs rather than lines, in various
carefully controlled registers of sophistication. His vocabulary is phenomenal,
and once in a while he will throw in a Welsh name or term. (I have looked up a
table of Welsh pronunciation once or twice, but I keep forgetting.) But legato
and staccato, with short military barks and with unfolding sentences
containing compound adjectives, he conveys an atmosphere even if the meaning of
the words is not always clear. At times distant, at times uncomfortably close,
but never chatty and trivializing.
The
brotherhood and camaraderie of the young men, not thinking of death, is
unspoken, pervasive, and recognizable.
It is a book
to be read slowly and out loud, not grasped but savoured.
Four fragments.
First, an example of echo and reflection:
When you’re
ready No. 7—sling those rifles—move them on sergeant, remain two-deep on the
road—we join 5, 6 and 8 at the corner—don’t close up—keep your distance from
No. 6—be careful not to close up—take heed those leading files—not to close on
No. 6—you’re quite ready? —very good.
Move on . .
. move ’em on.
Get on . .
. we’re not too early.
Informal
directness buttressed the static forms—ritual words made newly real.
The
immediate, the nowness, the pressure of sudden, modifying circumstance—and
retribution following swift on disregard; some certain, malignant opposing,
brought intelligibility and effectiveness to the used formulae of command; the
liturgy of their going-up assumed a primitive creativeness, an apostolic
actuality, a correspondence with the object, a flexibility.
The mechanics
and reveries of marching, with hints of Anglo-Saxon poetic forms:
So they
would go a long while in solid dark, nor moon, nor battery, dispelled.
Feet
plodding in each other’s unseen tread. They said no word but to direct their
immediate next coming, so close behind to blunder, toe by heel tripping,
file-mates; blind on-following, moving with a singular identity.
Half-minds,
far away, divergent, own-thought thinking, tucked away unknown thoughts; feet
following file friends, each his own thought-maze alone treading; intricate,
twist about, own thoughts, all unknown thoughts, to the next so close following
on.
With practice
comes theory:
They were
given lectures on very wet days in the barn, with its great roof, sprung,
upreaching, humane, and redolent of a vanished order. Lectures on military
tactics that would be more or less commonly understood. Lectures on hygiene by
the medical officer, who was popular, who glossed his technical discourses with
every lewdness, whose heroism and humanity reached toward sanctity.
And lastly, my
hands-down favourite description of waking up:
