Acceptance or Anger – Poetry and Remembrance Day

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.