Guillaume Apollinaire
It is in the log cabin veiled in wicker
Near the gray cannons facing north
That I think of the African village
Where we danced where we sang where we made love
And long speeches
Noble and joyful
I see again my father who fought
Against the Ashantis
In the service of the English
I see again my sister with her wild laughter
With breasts hard as shells
And I see again
My mother the witch who alone in the village
Despised salt
Pounded millet in a mortar
I remember the so delicate so disturbing
Fetish in the tree
And the double fetish of fertility
Later a severed head
At the edge of a swamp
Oh pallor of my enemy
It was a silver head
And in the marsh
It was the moon that shone
So it was a silver head
Up there it was the moon that danced
So it was a silver head
And me in the cave I was invisible
So it was a black head in the deep night
Similarities Paleness
And my sister
Later followed a rifleman
Died in Arras
If I wanted to know my age
I would have to ask the bishop
So sweet so sweet with my mother
Butter butter with my sister
It was in a small cabin
Less wild than our gunner-servant cagnat
I knew the lookout at the edge of the marshes
Where the giraffe drinks with its legs apart
I knew the horror of the enemy who devastates
The Village
Rapes the women
Takes the girls
And the boys whose hard rump jumps
I carried the administrator of the weeks
From village to village
Singing
And I was a servant in Paris
I don’t know my age
But at the recruitment
I was given twenty years
I am a French soldier they whitewashed me suddenly
Sector 59 I can’t say where
Why is being white better than being black
Why not dance and talk
Eat and then sleep
And we let’s shoot at the boche supplies
Or at the wires in front of the hunks
Under the metallic storm
I remember a horrible lake
And couples chained by an atrocious love
A crazy night
A night of witchcraft
Like this night Where
so many horrible looks
Burst in the splendid sky
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem blends memory, identity, and the surreal horrors of war, crafting a complex narrative that juxtaposes personal history with the violence and chaos of the battlefield. The speaker’s voice is reflective, nostalgic, and raw, moving fluidly between vivid recollections of their African heritage and the stark realities of their current life as a soldier in the French army during World War I.
The poem begins in a log cabin, a confined and somber space that prompts the speaker to recall a vivid past. The African village of their memory is depicted as a place of life, celebration, and tradition, with images of dancing, singing, and love. These memories are suffused with warmth, even as they reveal cultural complexities, such as the reverence for fertility fetishes or the disdain for salt by the speaker’s mother. The past feels alive and noble, standing in sharp contrast to the dehumanizing violence of war.
As the poem shifts to the present, the tone becomes darker and fragmented. The severed silver head in the swamp blurs into the moonlit night, merging surrealism with horror. This imagery underscores the disorientation and loss inherent in war. The speaker’s identity is further complicated by the colonizer’s impositions—being “whitewashed” and conscripted into the French military. The poem critiques the cultural and racial tensions, with the poignant question, “Why is being white better than being black?” exposing the internal conflict and societal prejudice the speaker faces.
Throughout the poem, the speaker weaves together memories of love and violence, their sister’s tragic fate, and their own role as a soldier. The repeated reflections on age and identity—unsure of their years, labeled arbitrarily by a system that seeks to erase individuality—highlight a loss of self in the midst of colonial and wartime structures.
The final section crescendos into a nightmarish vision, with “couples chained by an atrocious love” and “a night of witchcraft.” The surreal imagery mirrors the psychological toll of war, where even the sky is “splendid” yet filled with “horrible looks.” The poem captures the speaker’s inner turmoil, torn between longing for the life they knew and the brutal reality of their current existence.
This poem is a poignant exploration of cultural dislocation, racial injustice, and the haunting memories of war. The interwoven layers of identity, history, and violence create a narrative that is both deeply personal and broadly reflective of the colonial experience during World War I. Its imagery and tone leave a lasting impression of the psychological and cultural scars inflicted by war and oppression.