Gilbert Waterhouse
There’s Death in the air!
Grim Death !
Will ye dare
Look on that – or on this-
Observe ,
With passionless sight and motionless nerve ,
Without fear ,
Some freak he will play
As a cat with his prey ,
Nor beware
Of his kiss-
The hot kiss
And the reek
Of his breath
On your cheek-
Thro ‘ your hair-
Aye , and not fear
The message you hear
Let slip In the snap of his lip
At your ear-
Hist ! Who spoke ?
The grey smoke
Gives answer-
But subtle and sure as the feet of a dancer ,
From under the cloak
And the veil of smoke ,
Something more bitter or something more sweet
Than the twinkle of feet-
As birds on the wing
His messengers fly ,
So chaffinches flit
Or linnets go by
Overhead .
The lilt of a blackbird , the song of a thrush ,
The spangle of primroses under the brush ,
The clean , faint smell
Of violets , and . . . Ah , well ! . . ‘
Mid the cries of the wounded , the quiet of the dead ,
In the fire and the smoke and the thunder of Hell ,
Why do these bitter – sweet memories dwell ? –
Who can tell ? …
But the twinkle of feet and the lilt of a song ,
And the laughter of children all day long ,
And the wonderful scent of a maiden’s hair ,
Faint and elusive , upon the air ,
Like sunrise and dew ,
And a petal or two
Of a fallen rose on dewlit lawn ,
At early dawn
For so , mayhap , •
With the seed of wonder and strange delight ,
The soul’s dim granary floors are stocked ,
But in the lap
Of the Mother of sorrow and pain is rocked
Fruit o ‘ the seed ,
And now at need
The granary doors are swift unlocked .
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem takes us into the heart of war, where death is a constant, looming presence. It’s not just about the battlefield but about how the presence of death seeps into the very air, becoming something almost tangible. The poet sets up this sense of dread right away—*“There’s Death in the air! / Grim Death!”*—almost as if it’s a figure lurking just out of sight, waiting for its moment. The language here is direct, almost conversational, which adds to the eerie feeling. The poet invites us to consider the possibility of facing death without flinching, as if daring us to maintain composure in the face of something so final and fearsome.
Death here is personified, becoming more than just an abstract idea. It’s a presence that can *“play / As a cat with his prey,”* suggesting a kind of cruel playfulness. This idea is reinforced with lines like *“The hot kiss / And the reek / Of his breath,”* turning death into something intimate and invasive. It’s close, it’s personal, and it’s unavoidable. The poet doesn’t hold back from describing death as a physical force, with its breath on our cheek, slipping into our ear like a whispered secret.
The poem takes an interesting turn when it starts contrasting this grim imagery with the natural world—the *“lilt of a blackbird,”* the *“song of a thrush,”* and the *“clean, faint smell / Of violets.”* It’s a stark juxtaposition. These snippets of nature and life are reminders of what’s at stake, what’s being destroyed. The memories of normal life—children’s laughter, a maiden’s hair—linger amidst the chaos. It’s almost as if these memories are trying to protect the speaker’s humanity, a fragile shield against the horrors of war.
This contrast also emphasizes the unnaturalness of war. Life’s simple beauties—flowers, birds, children’s voices—feel out of place here, making the devastation seem even more jarring. The poet is highlighting how war disrupts the natural order, turning life into death and peace into chaos. The imagery is potent; the idea of a “fallen rose on dewlit lawn” evokes the loss of innocence and the end of something pure and beautiful.
In the last lines, the poem suggests that there’s something more profound at work. It hints that perhaps these memories, these bits of beauty, are stored away like seeds in a granary, waiting for a time when they might be needed. It’s a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness—the idea that even in the worst of times, the human spirit holds on to these small joys and wonders. Maybe they’re what help us endure, what give us strength when everything else has been stripped away.
Overall, this poem captures the strange coexistence of beauty and horror in times of war. It reminds us that even when surrounded by death and destruction, we hold onto the fragments of life that make it worth living. There’s a kind of resilience in this, a refusal to let go of the things that define our humanity.