
Remembrance Day Poppy
Prayer
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Galway Kinnell (1927 – 2014)
This small poem may be the bravest, if not most reckless, poem I have read. I discovered it about seven years ago during the unexpected end of my second marriage. I resisted it. I resisted its profound and astonishing acceptance. And it angered me. How could the poet, Galway Kinnell, be so rash? How could he dare the gods to throw a suitcase full of woes his way? For a recording of Kinnell reading the poem click here.
When I read the poem first in the shadow of a long and mostly good marriage I refused it. I did not want the failed marriage. The pain and disruption to our family. But even more I didn’t want the horrors I had seen in Africa especially in eastern DR Congo. The women there I had met before or after their fistula surgeries to repair their inside-rips from violent rape. My list of the “whatevers” I could not countenance went on and on.
And today, of all days, Remembrance Day, how can I say I would want the “whatever” of that horror: the First World War which left more than nine million dead, which ended ninety six years ago today. Kinnell’s poem may seem simple and almost prose. But it cries out as poetry in its repetitions, astonishing use of three “ises” in a row, and in its complexity; the size of the emotional bomb blast it leaves behind. When this poem ends, the poetry, the argument, inside the reader, is just beginning.

Galway KInnell, American Poet
The more I chew on this poem I see it as a terrifying praise poem. One that accepts life in all its range of joy and sorrows. We are going to experience the “whatevers” no matter what. What Kinnell does for me is to say a huge “yes” to them, to life. To say this is life. And to say I chose it. I do not deny it. I am not just a passive recipient of what it doles out. I chose it. In truth, I cannot say this whole heartedly every day. But this poem reminds me what’s at stake. Asks me if I am brave enough, big enough, to live this way.
And Galway, you who died just a few weeks ago, you, who wrote some of the finer poems of your generation of great American writers, how can I say that your death, the what of that, is what I want? Just that? I have no choice, I must accept it. But Galway, I never wanted it. And I never wanted the death of my great uncle in the mud of France in 1916 and I never wanted the death of my uncle in the jungles of Malaya in 1941. And I never wanted the deaths of all those who have fought in wars, especially those who are dying today in too many places around the world.
Do I feel your acceptance today, at this moment, Galway? No. I feel anger. In spite of all the words I heard today regarding Remembrance Day, and the hope for a time, when all men and women can co-exist in peace, I feel such hopelessness and anger. And I remember another poem very different from yours Galway. I remember Wilfred Owen’s poem written during the First World War. The one based on the biblical story of the attempted sacrifice, by Abram, of his son Isaac. A sacrifice averted by God at the last moment. This poem turns the biblical story on its head and gut punches me with the shock from the surprise of its ending. This I consider one of the finest poems ever written against war.
The Parable of the Old Man and the Young
So Abram rose, and clave the wood and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.
When Lo! An angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in the thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, –
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

Wilfred Owen. British war poet
Wilfred Owen was an English teacher working in France in 1915. He decided to join up in World War One because, as he said in a letter to a friend, I don’t imagine that the German War will be affected by my joining in, but I know my own future Peace will be. Owen was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry in October 1918. He was killed on November 4th, aged 25. His parents were notified of his death as the bells were pealing for joy of Armistice on November 11. How can I not be angry at this death? Its utter waste. And how can I not respond to his anger that explodes out of the last two lines of the poem when Abram does not stay his hand against his son:
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, –
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
My outrage rises in my throat when I read these lines. An outrage at whatever lies inside all of us which turns the wars and conflicts inside us into wars outside of us, in the world. I am angry at our human capacity for seeking meaning by killing others. I am angry at the young man, already old, who three weeks ago killed Corporal Nathan Cirillo at the Canadian War Memorial in Ottawa where Remembrance Day was celebrated by thousands this morning. I am angry at the young man, already old, who killed Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent in St. Jean-sur-Richelieu, Quebec two days before the death of Cirillo.
I am angry today. I cannot read Kinnell’s poem with any equanimity. I don’t want the what of hate, of war. I don’t want the hate I harbour, the wars I fight inside. Oh Galway, I wish you were still alive to teach me the acceptance of your poem. It’s sublime courage!
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Galway, for your acceptance, bless you. Wilfred for your anger, bless you.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, –
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
8 Comments
Galway, for your acceptance, bless you. Wilfred for your anger, bless you.
Richard, for your honesty, bless you.
Liz
Dear Liz:
Thank you for your loyal following of my posts. Funny thing. Wasn’t planning on going to a place of anger in the post. But it took me right there.
What an ending. At first I felt Owen had lifted the poem almost word for word from the Biblical version, the language and pacing, but then the shock of the last two lines. Of course we forget we have all sprung from these ancient ancestors whoever they were. Remembrance Day is bittersweet for me as the cost to Germans is rarely acknowledged, though it was great. The world forgets there were huge civilian losses, mostly women and children.
Thanks Heidi Glad you hung on until the end of Owen’s poem.
I’m with you on this Richard. Seems to me that Kinnell’s passivity verges on sin. If we don’t at least hope and in minute ways attempt to counter humanity’s need to injure and kill then we are turning away like the Pharisees (I think) treatment of the suffering man at the roadside. I must admit I do despair, and yet somewhere there’s a glimmer of unreasonable hope that keeps surfacing in my mind.
Thanks so much Joanna. His is what I would call a “terrible” acceptance. Maybe ultimately an acceptance we are called to but not without a great
effort to make a life as deep and rich as possible. But then again some of the great richness in my life has come from suffering and events I would not have chosen. Acceptance perhaps opened the door to something more.
I’ve always used this poem in teaching over and over again because aside from the brilliance of the compression of real feeling–it’s probably the only poem, only THING, in the english language in which the word “is” appears three times in a row. Is is is…. BUT, PLEASE, when you quote a poem, be mindful of the line breaks! This poem–if I remember right–is three distinct lines. I’ll find it. Wait a minute…..
Here you go. As written. And, the important thing, of course, is now the poem has even MORE POWER!!
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
Dear Michael:
So appreciate your comment and love of the Galway poem! I am curious, however, about your line break comment. I am fastidious about line breaks. No wiggle room in that for me. Without honouring them the poem is not the same poem! I checked my 2014 post and the poem as displayed at the beginning of the post is in three lines with the proper breaks! Whew. You had me worried. But I am further curious as to what you saw inthe post where the breaks were incorrect! Again so glad to hear from you.