As The 100th
Anniversary Of The First Year Of World War I (Remember The War To End All Wars)
Continues ... Some Remembrances-Poet’s Corner-German Poets
Peter Baum
Blog post submitted by Marilyn Turkovich on Thursday, September 9, 2010 - 10:23am.
When he found himself, at the age of 45, caught up in the real, not imaginary, terrors of war, his poetry changed. Now he worked at a more subtle use of poetic language, exploring the way in which poetic images can convey a process or sequence of events. 'Am Beginn des Krieges' (below) is a moving example of this. It moves from the beginning of the war to its peak, playing on the contrast between images of hope and peace (the arch of a rainbow, doves) and images of the over-arching power and destructiveness of war.
A gentle, peace-loving man like Peter Baum was naturally deeply distressed by his time on the western front. He served as a stretcher-bearer, which meant that he saw, many times, the terrible sufferings of wounded and dying soldiers. His experiences prevented him from sleeping, an additional stress. His tasks included grave-digging, and this is what he was doing on June 5, 1916, when a stray piece of shrapnel hit him. He died the next day.
At the Beginning of the War
At the beginning of the war there was a rainbow.
Black birds against grey clouds cut circles.
Doves gleamed silver as, on their wheeling flight
They twisted through a slender shaft of light.
Battle follows hard on battle. They were superb liars.
Rank on rank of gaping heads rouse horrors.
Shells continually explode as, whistling softly,
The arc of their trajectory bows down from its climb.
The pain-bow of the shells is waxing all the time.
Stalled between Death and the rainbow arch of peace,
To protect their land men grip their rifles tighter,
Spit at the enemy, lean on each other as they totter.
Toppling like billows over hillocks in their course,
They waver on, drawn by Death's magnetic force.
World War I Battle Scene
Peter Baum was a Rhinelander, born in Eberfeld, Germany in 1869 to parents who were religious and strict. Against this background his imagination flowered, and he became a writer of strange and fantastical stories and poems.
He has been described as 'a naturally trusting, naive and peaceable man'. Some people took advantage of his good nature, and his early attempts to make a living as a publisher came to nothing. But in 1898, through his portrait painter sister, he was introduced to well-known writers who took a sincere interest in him. His work was even accepted by a ground-breaking literary magazine.When he found himself, at the age of 45, caught up in the real, not imaginary, terrors of war, his poetry changed. Now he worked at a more subtle use of poetic language, exploring the way in which poetic images can convey a process or sequence of events. 'Am Beginn des Krieges' (below) is a moving example of this. It moves from the beginning of the war to its peak, playing on the contrast between images of hope and peace (the arch of a rainbow, doves) and images of the over-arching power and destructiveness of war.
A gentle, peace-loving man like Peter Baum was naturally deeply distressed by his time on the western front. He served as a stretcher-bearer, which meant that he saw, many times, the terrible sufferings of wounded and dying soldiers. His experiences prevented him from sleeping, an additional stress. His tasks included grave-digging, and this is what he was doing on June 5, 1916, when a stray piece of shrapnel hit him. He died the next day.
At the Beginning of the War
At the beginning of the war there was a rainbow.
Black birds against grey clouds cut circles.
Doves gleamed silver as, on their wheeling flight
They twisted through a slender shaft of light.
Battle follows hard on battle. They were superb liars.
Rank on rank of gaping heads rouse horrors.
Shells continually explode as, whistling softly,
The arc of their trajectory bows down from its climb.
The pain-bow of the shells is waxing all the time.
Stalled between Death and the rainbow arch of peace,
To protect their land men grip their rifles tighter,
Spit at the enemy, lean on each other as they totter.
Toppling like billows over hillocks in their course,
They waver on, drawn by Death's magnetic force.
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