Charles Sorley
I have not brought my Odyssey
With me here across the sea;
But you’ll remember, when I say
How, when they went down Sparta way,
To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn
Horses were harnessed, rations drawn,
Equipment polished sparkling bright,
And breakfasts swallowed (as the white
Of Eastern heavens turned to gold)–
The dogs barked, swift farewells were told.
The sun springs up, the horses neigh,
Crackles the whip thrice–then away!
From sun-go-up to sun-go-down
All day across the sandy down
The gallant horses galloped, till
The wind across the downs more chill
Blew, the sun sank and all the road
Was darkened, that it only showed
Right at the end the town’s red light
And twilight glimmering into night.
The horses never slackened till
They reached the doorway and stood still.
Then came the knock, the unlading; then
The honey-sweet converse of men,
The splendid bath, the change of dress,
Then–O the grandeur of their Mess,
The henchmen, the prim stewardess!
And O the breaking of old ground,
The tales, after the port went round!
(The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus,
Old Agamemnon and his misuse
Of his command, and that young chit
Paris–who didn’t care a bit
For Helen–only to annoy her
He did it really, κ.τ.λ.)
But soon they led amidst the din
The honey-sweet ἀοιδὸς in,
Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight,
Who knew the fame of men in fight–
Bard of white hair and trembling foot,
Who sang whatever God might put
Into his heart.
And there he sung,
Those war-worn veterans among,
Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung,
Of clash of arms, of council’s brawl,
Of beauty that must early fall,
Of battle hate and battle joy
By the old windy walls of Troy.
They felt that they were unreal then,
Visions and shadow-forms, not men.
But those the Bard did sing and say
(Some were their comrades, some were they)
Took shape and loomed and strengthened more
Greatly than they had guessed of yore.
And now the fight begins again,
The old war-joy, the old war-pain.
Sons of one school across the sea
We have no fear to fight–
* * * * *
And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it,
With the body or without it,
We shall all come tumbling down
To our old wrinkled red-capped town.
Perhaps the road up Ilsley way,
The old ridge-track, will be my way.
High up among the sheep and sky,
Look down on Wantage, passing by,
And see the smoke from Swindon town;
And then full left at Liddington,
Where the four winds of heaven meet
The earth-blest traveller to greet.
And then my face is toward the south,
There is a singing on my mouth:
Away to rightward I descry
My Barbury ensconced in sky,
Far underneath the Ogbourne twins,
And at my feet the thyme and whins,
The grasses with their little crowns
Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs,
And that old signpost (well I knew
That crazy signpost, arms askew,
Old mother of the four grass ways).
And then my mouth is dumb with praise,
For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny,
A glimpse of Marlborough ἐρατεινή!
So I descend beneath the rail
To warmth and welcome and wassail.
* * * * *
This from the battered trenches–rough,
Jingling and tedious enough.
And so I sign myself to you:
One, who some crooked pathways knew
Round Bedwyn: who could scarcely leave
The Downs on a December eve:
Was at his happiest in shorts,
And got–not many good reports!
Small skill of rhyming in his hand–
But you’ll forgive–you’ll understand.
_12 July 1915_
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem carries the weight of its time, evoking the sense of nostalgia and inevitability that seems to surround war while grounding it in personal memory. The speaker contrasts the heroic tales of ancient warriors with his own experiences of the present war, blurring the lines between past and present, glory and grim reality.
The opening section vividly sets the scene with a detailed and nostalgic recounting of a military journey. The rhythm of the horses galloping, the sun rising, and the journey stretching across the day encapsulates the vitality and drive of a soldier’s life—until the end of the journey when the “red light” of the town appears, signaling the end of the day’s march. The narrative then shifts from physical travel to more intimate moments: the warmth of a bath, the camaraderie of the mess, and the tales shared over wine. This section reflects the human side of war, where soldiers find solace in shared experiences, forgetting or temporarily escaping the harshness of the battlefield.
The mention of the blind bard is significant. His role is not only to entertain but to immortalize the past. He sings of war, beauty, and loss—elements that are timeless. The soldiers are caught in this sense of nostalgia, and as they listen to the bard’s songs, they become part of the myth. They start to see themselves as immortal figures, not just soldiers but heroes, woven into the fabric of a larger, eternal struggle. In this moment, the speaker begins to see their own struggles as not only personal but universal.
The poem takes a personal turn in the final sections, where the speaker reflects on a potential return to a quiet life after the war. The details of the landscape, the places he knows, paint a picture of homecoming—peace after the chaos of war. The references to towns and landscapes bring a sense of longing for the familiar, the grounding connection to the earth that had been left behind. The dream of returning to this home is contrasted with the present experience of war—”battered trenches,” “rough,” “tedious.” Yet, even amid this, the speaker maintains a sense of connection to the past, acknowledging that despite the hardships, the memory of home endures.
The closing lines, where the speaker acknowledges his own limitations—both in skill and report—soften the heroic tone of the poem, grounding it in humility. The speaker may not have been a master of his craft, but the sincerity of his words and the emotion they convey are what make the poem impactful.
Ultimately, the poem navigates the complex emotions of war, from the heroic and idealized moments to the weary reality of battle, while also weaving in personal nostalgia and longing. It reminds us that while the grandeur of war might inspire tales of heroism, it is the human experience, the longing for home, and the shared memories that give meaning to the struggle.