A.P. Herbert
It was my home, not ringed with roses blowing,
Nor set in meadows where cool waters croon;
Parched wastes were round it, and no shade was going,
Nor breath of violets nor song-birds’ tune;
Only at times from the adjacent dwelling
Came down with Boreas the quaint, compelling
Scent of the Tenth Platoon.
And there not hermit-like alone I brooded,
But ant and lizard and all things that crawl
With great grasshoppers by brigades intruded;
Therein the tortoise had his homely stall;
Green flies and blue slept nightly in their notches,
Save when a serpent, in the middle watches,
Came and disturbed us all.
There, where the sun, the senseless sun, kept pouring,
And dust-clouds smothered one about the chest,
While secret waters filtered through the flooring
(In case the heat should leave one _too_ oppressed),
Always I lay in those sad fevered seasons
Which Red-Hat humourists, for mystic reasons,
Regarded as our “rest.”
For it was home; and when I was not in it,
But in the trenches, it was home indeed;
When mad foes fired at twenty rounds a minute
(Not, I may say, the regulation speed),
For me far more it harboured my Penates;
I missed my animals; I missed my gay teas
With Alf, the centipede.
And I am shocked to think that that same ceiling
Shields now some Mussulman of lowly strain;
Yet, though he knows me not, I can’t help feeling
That something of my spirit must remain,
And if, in that rich air the man should mellow
In mind, in soul, and be a better fellow,
I have not lived in vain.
And it may be, when worlds have ceased to wrestle,
I shall go back across the Midland foam
At special rates in some large tourist vessel
To my late hollow in the Sultan’s loam,
And there clasp hands with that uplifted warrior,
Compare brief notes and wonder which was sorrier
To have to call it home.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem is an evocative, bittersweet reflection on the speaker’s experiences of home, war, and the peculiar sense of belonging to a place that was both harsh and strange. With sharp imagery and subtle humor, the speaker presents the tension between the idealized concept of “home” and the grim reality of a life in a foreign, hostile environment.
From the very beginning, the poem rejects the common romanticized vision of home as a peaceful, serene place. “It was my home, not ringed with roses blowing, / Nor set in meadows where cool waters croon,” — here, the speaker sets up a stark contrast between the idyllic notion of home and the arid, inhospitable reality of their surroundings. The “parched wastes” and lack of “shade” paint a bleak picture, setting the tone for the speaker’s unusual relationship with their environment.
The imagery that follows is both humorous and uncomfortable: “Only at times from the adjacent dwelling / Came down with Boreas the quaint, compelling / Scent of the Tenth Platoon.” The presence of the soldiers — “the Tenth Platoon” — adds an almost absurd, yet humanizing element to the scene. It’s as if the speaker is caught between a sense of physical discomfort and an ironic, resigned acknowledgment of the soldiers’ impact on the landscape. The poem is sprinkled with references to the natural world — ants, lizards, grasshoppers, and even serpents — which populate the speaker’s “home.” These creatures add to the sense of harshness and survival in an environment where life is defined by struggle rather than peace.
As the poem progresses, the speaker reflects on the strange mixture of discomfort and attachment to this place. “Always I lay in those sad fevered seasons / Which Red-Hat humourists, for mystic reasons, / Regarded as our ‘rest.'” There is a biting irony in the phrase “our ‘rest,'” suggesting that what was supposed to be a period of recuperation was actually fraught with illness, discomfort, and mental strain. The reference to “Red-Hat humourists” implies that the outside world viewed their hardship with detached amusement or misunderstanding, further emphasizing the disconnect between the soldiers’ experiences and the civilian perception of war.
In the second half of the poem, the speaker addresses the notion of “home” from a distance, while in the trenches, and juxtaposes it with the idea of belonging. Despite the violent and chaotic conditions of the war, the speaker’s connection to this place remains strong. “For me far more it harboured my Penates; / I missed my animals; I missed my gay teas / With Alf, the centipede.” This moment of nostalgia is striking — the mention of “Penates,” the Roman household gods, links the concept of home with personal identity, suggesting that it is not the physical structure of a house that defines home, but the memories and the things that ground the speaker in their personal history. The animals and “Alf, the centipede,” represent an eccentric, comforting world that the speaker is clinging to amidst the chaos.
The final stanzas reveal the speaker’s complex feelings toward the ongoing impact of war on their sense of place. The speaker is “shocked to think that that same ceiling / Shields now some Mussulman of lowly strain.” Here, the speaker expresses a kind of reluctant resignation to the changes that war brings to the world, and the way that “home” is not a permanent concept. The speaker imagines that their spirit has somehow remained in the space, even as it is now occupied by someone else. The feeling is oddly uplifting, as if the speaker has left an indelible mark on the place, even though they no longer belong to it.
Finally, the speaker imagines returning “across the Midland foam” — that is, across the sea to their former home — in a future that is both distant and uncertain. The idea of “clasping hands with that uplifted warrior” is a poignant one, as it suggests the possibility of reconciliation or understanding between people who have been at war, united by a shared experience of what it means to call a place “home.”
The poem captures the disorienting nature of war and the way it shifts one’s understanding of home, belonging, and identity. Through humor, irony, and a deep sense of nostalgia, the speaker reflects on how the harshest, most unpleasant environments can become unexpectedly tied to one’s sense of self. Home, in this context, is not just a place of comfort or beauty but a complex, multifaceted reality that changes as one’s circumstances change. The final lines, with their mix of resignation and hope, suggest that war is an experience that not only uproots the body but reshapes the spirit as well, leaving behind traces that linger long after the physical battles are over.