A poesia na Grande Guerra

Gassed

John Singer Sargent

 

All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true poet must be truthful

Wilfred Owen

 

A poesia é um dos grandes testemunhos da I Guerra Mundial. Muitos dos poetas eram jovens que combateram e morreram nas batalhas ou como consequência delas. A poesia foi um meio de expressarem o seu medo, a sua fúria, a sua tristeza, a sua vulnerabilidade. Transformaram-se nas vozes das consciências dos povos, pela sua comovedora sinceridade e honestidade, numa linguagem que se desligou de artificialismos formais e nos aproxima do sofrimento, da amizade e da solidariedade.

 

Muitos foram os que publicara os seus poemas durante a Grande Guerra, havendo inúmeras antologias já do pós-guerra.

 

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

    That mark our place; and in the sky

    The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

 

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

        In Flanders fields.

 

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

    The torch; be yours to hold it high.

    If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

        In Flanders fields.

 

John Mccrae

 

 

THE DEAD

 

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,

      Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.

The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,

      And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movement, and heard music; known

      Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;

Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;

      Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

 

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter

And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,

      Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance

And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white

      Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,

A width, a shining peace, under the night.

 

Rupert Brooke