Any study of the war poem and war poetry should reveal distinct characteristics which go beyond the subject of war. Collectively, war poems and war poetry act as tremendous historical recorded evidence of the subject they portray. Like other historical evidence, poetry is a witness to history, and it must be considered as valuable a source as any other literature or artefact. Poetry, whether it is a war poem, or war poetry, is all too often neglected as an historical source.
But why use the terms 'war poem' and 'war poetry'? Are not they the same thing? The short answer to this question is 'no', whereas the long answer is 'no, they aren't the same'. We might answer the question, 'What is a war poem?', by stating that it is historical witness in relation to war. This is much the same as what we would recognise as personal testimony. The question, 'What is war poetry?', might be answered as historical evidence. This, we can recognise as case testimony as it relates to war. From this, we may understand that war poems (personal testimony) create war poetry (case testimony). In this way, any collection of testimonies may be collated to form a case testimony within the given subject.
The subject is not specifically the war, although it may be, but rather, a specific action, or series of actions, within the war. For example, many poets wrote poems about Gallipoli, such as Cramer, Robertson, Gilmore, Dennis, Lawson, Walters, O'Neill, Ryan, Gellert, Skeyhill, Patterson, Patrius, Westbrook, Adcock, Brereton, Kidson and many others. Each of these poems represent a certain witness to events that took place at Gallipoli; these are the testimonies through poetry of the poets' experiences, emotions, thoughts, beliefs and so on, specific to the time and place. Their historical value is also found in their contemporary aspect. Together, these poets' poems create the poetry of Gallipoli, which forms evidencial case testimony. This process may be used in any theatre of war, and in any aspect of war. Where we have poets writing poems, we then have poetry. It must be noted, however, that where there is only one poem, it may still form poetry under this definition.
Within the Australian Great War poetry canon, we can find two poems about the unborn children of dead soldiers. The two poets are Archibald Nigel Guy Irving and Margery Ruth Betts, and the the poems they wrote are both called 'The Unborn'. There is no evidence that Irving and Betts knew each other, but they did seem to share the same feelings about the subject of the two poems. Irving's poem identifies the subject as those potential children who could have lived if their potential father had survived the war. Betts' poem identifies the exact same subject.
The unborn child is the mentioned subject, but the unmentioned subject is the dead soldier. The poems can be read in two ways: by recognising the unborn child, or by recognising the tragedy of the soldier's death. It is a statement about potential lost; both of Australian citizenry and human life. Each individual poem forms personal testimony of the subject, but together, the two poems form the case testimony of the subject. Irving's 'The Unborn' is his personal testimony of this tragedy, and how he perceived it, while Betts' 'The Unborn' is her personal testimony of the same tragedy. Each poem is unique, in as much as it provides individual thoughts on the subject, whereas, the two poems together may be considered the poetry of the subject (the poetry of the unborn).
The following two poems show each poet's emotional contact with both the mentioned subject and the unmentioned subject.
The Unborn By Archibald Nigel Guy Irving
We stand upon the threshold of the earth. We may not enter in. We know our mothers, who have not known birth. We cannot hope to win A foothold in the world of blessed light. We stand enshrouded in eternal night. We know no sunrise. Our night has no morn. We are the children of the dead, unborn.
The children of the dead whose youth was hurled As sacred sacrifice To that mad god of war who rules the world. Our fathers paid the price Of liberty in suffering and blood. They passed unknown like litter on the flood Swept to oblivion in boundless seas. We are the fruit that never formed of these.
We are the sons who should have been. Forlorn Dream children, dream inspired; Conceived in thought, imagination born, Dim wraiths of the desired Doomed to eternal nullity by Death; The mind-created, never to draw breath; The pale, frustrated dreams of men who died. We wait unborn, our heritage denied.
We may not feel the spring beneath our feet Of green and kindly grass, Or hear the high bird singing, far and sweet, Beneath white clouds that pass Across the depths of blue. We may not hear The tinkling water running cool and clear O’er cool brown glistening stones. We may not know The glory of the sunset’s lingering glow.
Light fingers of soft winds shall not caress Our cheeks, or stir our hair. We may not pluck bright flowers in happiness, Or wander, free from care, Down long, dim, silent aisles of mysteries Blessed by the benedictions of great trees. We may not know the glory of the sun, Or night’s still splendour when the day is done.
We may not know the pleasant things of earth, Or its ennobling care; Music and song, beauty and joy and mirth, And sorrow that is there. Each makes a part and all parts make a whole. Each works toward the building of a soul. But we move soulless, desolate, forlorn, Pale fantasies of minds now dead, unborn.
We wait unborn beyond the outer stars, Shut ever from the light. We beat with broken hands against the bars Which hold us from our right. Oh men of earth! If you have tears to shed Weep not for those who passed, the happy dead. They lived and wrought, and now at rest they lie; But we, the unbegotten, may not die.
The Unborn By Margery Ruth Betts
Oh, the little ghosts, the little ghosts, a-calling and a-crying! The white sails know their haven and the place where they would be, The white wings know the hidden nest, and homewards they are flying, But, oh! the little soundless feet that come not home to me.
’Twas just a dream of mine, my boy, and you were never heeding, You laughed, and said your mother was “the sweetest girl you knew,” But I, your mother, dreamt a time when someone would be needing The little silly songs and rhymes I used to sing for you.
I used to sit and think of it when dew was on the clover, And plan how I would sing again the little lullaby, And I’d be singing, very low, the words and music over, And now they’re crying at my heart, and will be till I die.
I was a silly woman at my age to get a-dreaming. I dreamt until I thought I heard the feet that never were, And even now at moments when I see a sunbeam gleaming, I stretch my hand to catch it for a child that is not there.
Oh, the little things, the silly things, a woman dreams of saying, And the way that every woman knows of kissing scratched knees well! They’d have liked to rest on granny’s knees when they were tired of playing, They’d have liked to hear the fairy tales that granny knew too tell.
Once I heard you calling, boy, in walking and in sleeping, But now I’ve seen you lying dead on far Gallipoli, And now I know the worst of it, my eyes are tired of weeping, And Mary Mother has my son in Heaven safe for me.
But, oh! the ghosts, the little ghosts, a-calling and a-crying, The weary wings they know the ways that lead them to the nest, The white-sailed ships they cleave the seas when homeward they are flying, But, oh! the small unmothered feet that have no place to rest.
Both poems stand together as case evidence for what people were feeling as a result of the huge losses in the war. The poems give witness to one of the things people thought about, and we can be sure, that this was not a thought of just two poets, but rather, a thought of many people who lost someone in the war; someone who could have been a father. The poems show that Australians were thinking about the future of the country, and that Australia had not only lost a generation, but also the future generation of the unborn. If we take this further, we may realise that the unborn also had potential to be parents, and so on, but this potential was lost on the battle fields of the Great War. These thoughts may be recognised in the two poems of Irving and Betts, where, individually they give witness to the tragedy, but together, they give stronger evidence that the tragedy was in the minds of Australians; that they were thinking about it.
This process may be done with any aspect of the war. Where we have war poetry, we necessarily have war poems. It is by recognising the war poem as a contributing factor of evidence, which goes to make up the collective canon of evidence concerning the given subject. By understanding this, we may begin to realise that the poetry of war is a vital literary source of which researchers may refer for source material.
The war poem as historical witness, and war poetry as historical evidence, provides the historical researcher with a huge range of virtually untapped source material. Poetry lends itself to emotional responses to war, which, in prose and documents, is not so common. Because of this, poetry gives the researcher glimpses into the emotions and feelings of the author. Further to this, poetry can also give witness to people and events. Take, for example, Trooper Gerardy's two poems, 'Lofty Lane' and 'Beersheba'. In Lofty Lane, Gerardy shows various attributes of Lane as being long and loose of limb, sure in the saddle, a man of chance, the first one out and the last one back. 'Lofty Lane,' a scout in Gerardy's unit, was killed while on patrol, and Gerardy pays him tribute in the poem, which acts as a witness to the man and his death. 'Beersheba' tells of the famous Light Horse charge and gives great firsthand witness to the event. Both 'Loft Lane' and 'Beersheba' are examples of war poems as historical witness, which, when added to other was poems of the same subjects, create historical evidence. Both Gerardy and Idries wrote poems about the Light Horse charge at Beersheba, and while each poem is identifiable as historical witness, collectively they form historical evidence.
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