Complete Works of Isaac Rosenberg

by Isaac Rosenberg

  I have never read B’s plays though Mr Marsh told me of them, but the war interfered and I have read no literature for the last year, till I got yours and B’s letters. I have asked my sister to send you a poem Bottomley liked— ‘Break of day in the trenches’. Perhaps the end is not quite-clear and wants working on. I have an idea for a book of war poems. I have already written a few small things but have plans for a few longish dramatic poems. Abercrombie’s ‘Hymn to Love’ is I think, the great thing of modern times, and far above anything else of his I know. Bottomley is more profound and a purer artist — but the Hymn to Love wants some licking. Thank you for showing my work about, I am naturally anxious for discerning people to read my things.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  I have not heard from J.R. and am glad he is not in trouble.

  November 20, 1916

  22311 A Coy 3 Platoon

  11th K.O.R.L. B.E.F.

  DEAR MR TREVELYAN

  I had just written to Mr Bottomley when your letter reached me last week. Perhaps you were still with him when my letter arrived (if it did arrive) and read the little poem I sent. Just as a reminder that poetry is still alive in my brain. We are pretty busy and writing letters is most awkward, but after some rough days in the trenches, here before the comfortable glare of the camp fire I cannot help using these few odd minutes to answer your letter. It was a treat to get something about something from home. I cannot now enter into your arguments though that kind of fighting is more in my line than trench fighting

  I am writing this chiefly to let you know I am still safe, and to thank you for your letter. I am most eager to see Bottomley’s new work and the rest in your annual. I read Moore’s Sicilian Idyll in the first Georgian book and it is great. That is all I know of Moore. Judith and the Hymn to Love made me think Abercrombie the first poet in the world. If there is any chance of getting home I’ll certainly let you know — though things are so vague and in the air we never know whats going to happen for two minutes together.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  December 1916

  MY DEAR MARSH

  If I get two letters from one friend I get none from another. Well — I have not been out here six months for nothing — I have learnt to be a Stoic and say nothing. We hear very little of what’s going on in England, but I did get a rumour of great changes in the government which may affect you. I wish I were in England just for a while, particularly now that I feel run down and weakened. I am also wishful to meet Gordon Bottomley some day. I hear Abercrombie is over-working himself and doing himself no good; a condition of being I can claim to rival him in. Gibson’s ‘Battle’ was sent to me and delighted me. It is as good as Degas. In a way it seems a contradiction that a thinker should take a low plane as he does there, instead of the more complex and sensitive personality of a poet in such a situation. Most who have written as poets have been very unreal and it is for this reason, their naturalness, I think Gibson’s so fine. The Homer for this war has yet to be found — Whitman got very near the mark 50 years ago with ‘Drum Taps’. I don’t know what these Government changes will mean to you but do write if you can and let me know.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  DEAR RODKER,

  What on earth is happening to you and why are you so secret about things. Your letter made me quite wild to know what was up. However perhaps you’ve got to be quiet. I’ve had some lovely letters from G

  Bottomley. It is rough luck on him that he’s so poor in health. That must be the reason he doesn’t produce very much. I had a box of Turkish from Miss Pulley and if you see her you can tell her that the war has been worth while since its been the cause of this enormous pleasure to me — Of course a poet must put it on a bit thick. Turn over for a patriotic gush, a jingo spasm

  POZIÉRES

  Glory! glory! glory!

  British women, in your wombs you plotted

  This monstrous girth of glory, this marvellous glory.

  Not for mere love delights Time meant the profound hour

  When an Englishman was planned.

  Time shouted it to his extremest outpost.

  The illuminated call through the voided years

  Was heard, is heard at last,

  And will be heard at the last

  Reverberated through the Eternities,

  Earth’s immortality and Heavens.

  I am sending this to Sonia as you gave no address.

  ROSENBERG

  1917

  January 18, 1917

  MY DEAR MARSH

  My sister wrote me she would be writing to you. She’d got the idea of my being in vile health from your letter addressed to Dempsey St, and naturally they at home exaggerated things in their minds. Perhaps though it is not so exaggerated. That my health is undermined I feel sure of; but I have only lately been medically examined, and absolute fitness was the verdict. My being transferred may be the consequence of my reporting sick, or not; I don’t know for certain. But though this work does not entail half the hardships of the trenches, the winter and the conditions naturally tells on me, having once suffered from weak lungs, as you know. I have been in the trenches most of the 8 months I’ve been here, and the continual damp and exposure is whispering to my old friend consumption, and he may hear the words they say in time. I have nothing outwardly to show yet, but I feel it inwardly. I don’t know what you could do in a case like this; perhaps I could be made use of as a draughtsman at home; or something else in my own line, or perhaps on munitions. My new address is

  Pte I R 22311

  7 Platoon F. Coy

  40th Division

  Works Battalion

  B.E.F.

  I wrote a poem some while ago which Bottomley liked so, and I want you to see it, but I’m writing in most awkward conditions and can’t copy it now. ‘Poetry’ of Chicago printed a couple of my things and are paying me. I should think you find the Colonial Office interesting particularly after the war.

  I hope however it leaves you leisure for literature; for me its the great thing.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  February 8, 1917

  MY DEAR MARSH

  I was told the other day by the Captain that he had heard from you about me. He had me examined, but it appears I’m quite fit. What I feel like just now — I wish I were Tristram Shandy for a few minutes so as to describe this ‘cadaverous bale of goods consigned to Pluto’. This winter is a teaser for me; and being so long without a proper rest I feel as if I need one to recuperate and be put to rights again. However I suppose we’ll stick it, if we don’t there are still some good poets left who might write me a decent epitaph.

  I’ve sketched an amusing little thing called ‘the louse hunt’, and am trying to write one as well. I get very little chance to do anything of this sort but what I have done I’ll try and send you. Daumier or Goya are far in perspective.

  How do you find the Colonial Office after the Treasury?

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  Pte I. R. 22311

  7 Platoon F. Coy 40th Division Works Batt. B.E.F.

  I’ll send on the poem G.B. liked so much, next time I write.

  To Gordon Bottomley February 1917

  Your letters always give me a strange and large pleasure; and I shall never think I have written poetry in vain, since it has brought your friendliness in my way. Now, feeling as I am, cast away and used up, you don’t know what a letter like yours is to me. Ever since November, when we first started on our long marches, I have felt weak; but it seems to be some inscrutable mysterious quality of weakness that defies all doctors. I have been examined most thoroughly several times by our doctor, and there seems to be nothing at all wrong with my lungs. I believe I have strained my abdomen in some way, and I shall know of it later on. We have had desperate weather, but the poor fellows in the trenches where there are no dugouts
are the chaps to pity. I am sending a very slight sketch of a louse-hunt. It may be a bit vague, as I could not work it out here, but if you can keep it till I get back I can work on it then. I do believe I could make a fine thing of Judas. Judas as a character is more magnanimous than Moses, and I believe I could make it very intense and write a lot from material out here. Thanks very much for your joining in with me to rout the pest out, but I have tried all kinds of stuff; if you can think of any preparation you believe effective I’d be most grateful for it.

  To Gordon Bottomley April 8, 1917

  All through this winter I have felt most crotchety, all kinds of small things interfering with my fitness. My hands would get chilblains or bad boots would make my feet sore; and this aggravating a general run-down-ness, I have not felt too happy. I have gone less warmly clad during the winter than through the summer, because of the increased liveliness on my clothes. I’ve been stung to what we call ‘dumping’ a great part of my clothing, as I thought it wisest to go cold than lousy. It may have been this that caused all the crotchetiness. However, we’ve been in no danger — that is, from shell-fire — for a good long while, though so very close to most terrible fighting. But as far as houses or sign of ordinary human living is concerned, we might as well be in the Sahara Desert. I think I could give some blood-curdling touches if I wished to tell all I see, of dead buried men blown out of their graves, and more, but I will spare you all this.

  April 25, 1917

  MY DEAR MARSH

  My sister wrote me you have been getting more of my ‘Moses’. It is hardy of you, indeed, to spread it about; and I certainly would be distressed if I were the cause of a war in England; seeing what warfare means here. But it greatly pleases me, none the less, that this child of my brain should be seen and perhaps his beauties be discovered. His creator is in sadder plight; the harsh and unlovely times have made his mistress, the flighty Muse, abscond and elope with luckier rivals, but surely I shall hunt her and chase her somewhere into the summer and sweeter times. Anyway this is a strong hope; Lately I have not been very happy, being in torture with my feet again. The coldness of the weather and the weight of my boots have put my feet in a rotten state. My address is different now

  Pte IR 22311

  7 Platoon

  120th Brigade Works Coy

  B.E.F.

  There is more excitement now, but though I enjoy this, my feet cause me great suffering and my strength is hardly equal to what is required.

  I hear pretty often from G. Bottomley and his letters are like a handshake: and passages are splendid pieces of writing. Have you seen Trevelyan’s ‘Annual’ which G.B. writes me of?

  Do write me when you can.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  May 8, 1917

  MY DEAR MARSH

  We are camping in the woods now and are living great. My feet are almost healed now and my list of complaints has dwindled down to almost invisibility. I’ve written some lines suggested by going out wiring, or rather carrying wire up the line on limbers and running over dead bodies lying about. I don’t think what I’ve written is very good but I think the substance is, and when I work on it I’ll make it fine. Bottomley told me he had some very old poems in The Annual but of course its too bulky to send out here. Your extract from his ‘Atlantis’ is real Bottomleyian. The young Oxford poets you showed my things to I’ve never come across yet, and I’ll soon begin to think myself a poet if my things get admired so.

  I’m writing to my sister to send you the lines as she will type several copies.

  Yours sincerely

  I R

  I trust the colonial office agrees with you

  May 27, 1917

  MY DEAR MARSH

  I liked your criticism of ‘Dead mans dump’. Mr Binyon has often sermonised lengthily over my working on two different principles in the same thing and I know how it spoils the unity of a poem. But if I couldn’t before, I can now, I am sure, plead the absolute necessity of fixing an idea before it is lost, because of the situation its conceived in. Regular rhythms I do not like much, but of course it depends on where the stress and accent are laid. I think there is nothing finer than the vigorous opening of Lycidas for music; yet it is regular. Now I think if Andrew Marvell had broken up his rhythms more he would have been considered a terrific poet. As it is I like his poem urging his mistress to love because they have not a thousand years to love on and he can’t afford to wait. (I forget the name of the poem) well I like it more than Lycidas.

  I have written a much finer poem which I’ve asked my sister to send you. Don’t think from this I’ve time to write. This last poem is only about 70 lines and I started it about October. It is only when we get a bit of rest and the others might be gambling or squabbling I add a line or two, and continue this way. The weather is gorgeous now and we are bivouacked in the fields. The other night I awoke to find myself floating about with the water half over me. I took my shirt off and curled myself up on a little mound that the water hadn’t touched and slept stark naked that night. But that was not all of the fun. The chap next to me was suddenly taken with Diarrhoea and kept on lifting the sheet of the Bivouac, and as I lay at the end the rain came beating on my nakedness all night. Next morning, I noticed the poor chap’s discoloured pants hanging on a bough near by, and I thought after all I had the best of it.

  I fancy you will like my last poem, I am sure it is at least as good as my Kolue speech, and there is more of it.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  May 29, 1917

  MY DEAR MARSH

  I hope you have not yet got my poem ‘The Amulet’ which I’ve asked my sister to send you. If you get it please don’t read it because its the merest sketch and the best is yet to come. If I am able to carry on with it I’ll send you it in a more presentable fashion. I believe I have a good idea at bottom. Its a kind of ‘Rape of the Sabine Women’, idea.

  Some strange race of wanderers have settled in some wild place and are perishing out for lack of women. The prince of these explores some country near where the women are most fair. But the natives will not hear of foreign marriages and he plots another rape of the Sabines, but he is trapped in the act. Finis. But I fancy poetry is not much bothering you or anybody just now. I’ve heard of the air raids and I always feel most anxious about my people. Yet out here, though often a troublesome consolation, poetry is a great one to me. G. Bottomley sent me some knock-outs. ‘Atlantis’ is one of the grand poems in our language; and came to me as the news of a great victory might come. I am still with the R.E.s and go up the line every night, unloading barbed wire etc. In the afternoon we load the stuff. So I have the morning to sleep in, unless I happen to be doing some punishment for my forgetfulness; and then I must do that in the morning. Though furloughs are going about in our Div, it may be a good while before my turn comes.

  Yours sincerely

  ISAAC ROSENBERG

  7th June 1917

  DEAR MOTHER

  I have not had a letter since well over a week and hope things are all right at home. My new address is Pte I Rosenberg

  22311

  11th K.O.R.L.

  c/o 229 Field Coy.

  Royal Engineers,

  B.E.F.

  I will send a poem if I can’t manage it in this letter, in the next, I want typed and sent back to me, not to be shown to anyone, as I want to work on it before it is seen. The weather is still marvellous though last night it lightninged a good deal, it was good to see.

  Send me a pencil or chalk pencil. What is Dave doing and Elkon? I hope Peretz’s boys are good and no trouble. If they are good, things should be lively.

  Love to all

  ISAAC

  To Edward Marsh

  June 1917

  I am now fearfully rushed, but find energy enough to scribble this in the minute I plunder from my work. I believe I can see the obscurities in the ‘Daughters’, but hardly hope to clear them up in Fr
ance. The first part, the picture of the Daughters dancing and calling to the spirits of the slain before their last cries have ceased among the boughs of the tree of life, I must still work on. In that part obscure the description of the voice of the Daughter I have not made clear, I see; I have tried to suggest the wonderful sound of her voice, spiritual and voluptuous at the same time. The end is an attempt to imagine the severance of all human relationship and the fading away of human love. Later on I will try and work on it, because I think it a pity if the ideas are to be lost for want of work. My ‘Unicorn’ play is stopped because of my increased toil, and I forget how much or little I told you of it. I want to do it in one Act, although I think I have a subject here that could make a gigantic play. I have not the time to write out the sketch of it as far as it’s gone, though I’d like to know your criticism of it very much. The most difficult part I shrink from; I think even Shakespeare might: — the first time Tel, the chief of the decaying race, sees a woman (who is Lilith, Saul’s wife), and he is called upon to talk. Saul and Lilith are ordinary folk into whose ordinary lives the Unicorn bursts. It is to be a play of terror — terror of hidden things and the fear of the supernatural. But I see no hope of doing the play while out here. I have a way, when I write, to try and put myself in the situation, and I make gestures and grimaces.