Robert Graves

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Robert Graves was born on July 24, 1895, in Wimbledon, London, and died on December 7, 1985, in Deià, Mallorca, Spain. He is best known as a poet, novelist, and scholar, and his work spans a wide range of subjects, from mythology and history to personal reflection. Graves became particularly famous for his poetic work that emerged from his experiences during World War I and for his later scholarly work on Greek and Roman myth.

Graves came from a family with a strong academic background, and he was raised in a home where books were highly valued. His early education included attending Charterhouse School, where his interest in literature began to grow. After school, he went on to Oxford University, but his education was interrupted by the outbreak of World War I. Graves enlisted in the British Army and served as an officer in the Royal Welch Fusiliers.

His time during the war was pivotal, not only in shaping his view of the world but also in informing much of his later writing. He was wounded during the Battle of the Somme in 1916, an experience that left a lasting physical and emotional scar. This trauma became the subject of much of his poetry. His war poems, many of which were written in the immediate aftermath of his service, like “On the Western Front” and “Dead Cow Farm,” capture the horrors and disillusionment of war. The war and its impact on Graves cannot be overstated in understanding his poetry; it became a central theme in his early works.

After the war, Graves found fame as part of the literary community in London. His poem collection “Over the Brazier” was published in 1916, and his first major poetic work, “The White Goddess”, published in 1948, is considered one of his most influential works. The White Goddess is an exploration of European myth and the role of the feminine in poetry. Graves also wrote extensively about mythology and ancient cultures, contributing to the development of a literary style that mixed the ancient with the modern.

Graves’ military career had a lasting effect on both his personal life and his writing. His service in World War I, combined with his deep sense of loss and his subsequent recovery from the war, inspired some of his most important works. He spent much of his life grappling with the trauma of war, a theme that runs through his later poetry and prose. He was also known for his outspoken anti-war views, which reflected his disillusionment with conflict after having lived through its brutalities.

In his later years, Graves moved to Spain, where he lived in the village of Deià for much of his life. He continued to write prolifically, focusing on poetry, prose, and historical fiction, including the novel I, Claudius (1934), which remains one of his best-known works. Graves’ fascination with ancient civilizations and his exploration of mythology and history were key aspects of his creative output, and they helped to solidify his place in 20th-century literature.

Throughout his life, Graves’ military experiences and academic pursuits influenced much of his writing. His legacy remains as one of the most prominent poets of the World War I generation, as well as a respected scholar of mythology and history. While he wrote across many genres, it was his poetry, particularly his works reflecting the impact of the war, that earned him a lasting place in literary history. His frank approach to themes of trauma, mythology, and identity continues to resonate with readers today.

You may learn more at the Poetry Foundation and Wikipedia.

A CHILD’S NIGHTMARE

Robert Graves
Through long nursery nights he stood

By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,

SMOKE-RINGS

Robert Graves
BOY

Most venerable and learned sir,
Tall and true Philosopher,

LOVE AND BLACK MAGIC

Robert Graves
To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone;

In his grotto the maiden sits alone.
She gazes up with a weary smile

STRONG BEER

Robert Graves
“What do you think

The bravest drink
Under the sky?”

CAREERS

Robert Graves
Father is quite the greatest poet

That ever lived anywhere.
You say you’re going to write great music—

THE SPOILSPORT

Robert Graves
My familiar ghost again

Comes to see what he can see,
Critic, son of Conscious Brain,

THE COTTAGE

Robert Graves
Here in turn succeed and rule

Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known

THE CRUEL MOON

Robert Graves
The cruel Moon hangs out of reach

Up above the shadowy beech.
Her face is stupid, but her eye

BABYLON

Robert Graves
The child alone a poet is:

Spring and Fairyland are his.
Truth and Reason show but dim,

DEAD COW FARM

Robert Graves
An ancient saga tells us how

In the beginning the First Cow
(For nothing living yet had birth

TO AN UNGENTLE CRITIC

Robert Graves
The great sun sinks behind the town

Through a red mist of Volnay wine….
But what’s the use of setting down

Sergeant-Major Money

Robert Graves
Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame

That at the whisper of Love’s name,
Or Beauty’s, presto! up you raise

Retrospect: The Jests Of The Clock

Robert Graves
He had met hours of the clock he never guessed before—

Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear,
Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the Gods sleep and snore,

The Leveller

Robert Graves
Near Martinpuich that night of hell

Two men were struck by the same shell,
Together tumbling in one heap

Country At War

Robert Graves
And what of home–how goes it, boys,

While we die here in stench and noise?
“The hill stands up and hedges wind

The General Elliott

Robert Graves
He fell in victory’s fierce pursuit,

    Holed through and through with shot,
    A sabre sweep had hacked him deep

Recalling War

Robert Graves
Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean,

The track aches only when the rain reminds.
The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood

The Last Post

Robert Graves
The bugler sent a call of high romance— 

“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square. 
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, 

The Bough Of Nonsense

Robert Graves
Back from the Somme two Fusiliers 

    Limped painfully home; the elder said, 
S.  “Robert, I’ve lived three thousand years 

The Assault Heroic

Robert Graves
Down in the mud I lay,  

Tired out by my long day  
Of five damned days and nights,  

Not Dead

Robert Graves
Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain,  

I know that David’s with me here again.  
All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.  

Letter To S.S. From Mametz Wood

Robert Graves
I never dreamed we’d meet that day 

In our old haunts down Fricourt way, 
Plotting such marvellous journeys there 

An Old Twenty-Third Man

Robert Graves
“Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,  

Marching below, and we still gulping wine?”  
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup  

To Robert Nichols

Robert Graves
”Here by a snowbound river 

In scrapen holes we shiver, 
And like old bitterns we 

Corporal Stare

Robert Graves
Back from the line one night in June,  

I gave a dinner at Bethune—  
Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal  

Escape

Robert Graves
…but I was dead, an hour or more.  

I woke when I’d already passed the door  
That Cerberus guards, and half-way down the road  

Big Words

Robert Graves
I’ve whined of coming death, but now, no more!

It’s weak and most ungracious. For, say I,
Though still a boy if years are counted, why!

Hate Not – Fear Not

Robert Graves
Kill if you must, but never hate:

Man is but grass and hate is blight,
The sun will scorch you soon or late,

It’s A Queer Time

Robert Graves
It’s hard to know if you’re alive or dead

When steel and fire go roaring through your head.

Sorley’s Weather

Robert Graves
When outside the icy rain  

 Comes leaping helter-skelter,  
Shall I tie my restive brain  

When I’m Killed

Robert Graves
When I’m killed, don’t think of me

Buried there in Cambrin Wood,
Nor as in Zion think of me

1915

Robert Graves
I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow,  

In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;  
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,  

The Next War

Robert Graves
You young friskies who today

Jump and fight in Father’s hay 
With bows and arrows and wooden spears, 

Two Fusiliers

Robert Graves
And have we done with War at last?  

Well, we’ve been lucky devils both,  
And there’s no need of pledge or oath  

A Dead Boche

Robert Graves
To you who’d read my songs of War  

 And only hear of blood and fame,  
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before)  

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