Powerful poems on death
I've seen the following poem titled Do Not Call Me, Do Not Call Me,, Father, Untitled, and Song to my Son. Occasionally it's attributed to "an Anonymous Englishman writing in 1944", and some suggest Pavel Antokolsky as its author, but it is most commonly attributed to Lt. Vladimir Pavlovich Antokolovski, KIA June 6th, 1942.
Do not call me, father dear. Do not seek me.
Do not call me, do not wish me back.
We're on a route uncharted, fire and blood erase our track.
On we fly, on wings of thunder, nevermore to sheath our swords.
All of us in battles fallen, not to be brought back by words.
Will there be a rendezvous? I know not. I only know we still must fight.
We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore see light.
-----
Farewell then my son, farewell then my conscience,
my youth and my solace, my one and my only.
And let this farewell be the end of the story,
a solitude vast in which none is more lonely.
In which you remain barred, forever and ever,
from light and from air with your death pangs untold.
Untold and unproved, not to be resurrected--
forever and ever, an eighteen year old.
Farewell then. No trains ever come from those regions,
unscheduled or scheduled. No airplanes fly there.
Farewell then my son, for no miracles happen,
as in this world, dreams do not come true.
Farewell.
I will dream of you still as a baby,
treading the earth with little strong toes,
the earth where so many already lie buried.
This song to my son, then, has come to its close.
This poem affects me deeply; the cadence, subtle rhyme scheme and the simple yet devastating descriptive power of the simple statements make this an amazing translation. I don't speak Russian, but I suspect that there's probably even more to admire when reading it in its native tongue. Was this some undiscovered poet writing to dredge his feelings during the darkest days he'd ever seen, or an actual letter written in preparation for the writer's death. The latter seems improbable, given the skill of the writing, but then again that may have been a partial creation and refinement of the translator. The former isn't as improbable, but I'd guess that it's a combination of the two--a letter in verse form, written over some period of time, during the period from when the obvious intimation of death on the part of the author manifested itself and his death. Considering that he died just less than a year after the initial German invasion of Russia, and that he was a low-ranking commissioned officer, I'd say that he was relatively sure that the conditions in which the poem was written was one in which he had a period of relative quiet or relaxation, to compose, awaiting what to him seemed to be (and apparently was) a final action in which he expected to lose his life.
Of course, he could've written the whole thing while lying in a hospital, mortally wounded, but then again when you're dying and either in great pain or in a morphine droop, you're not really in any shape to do fine poetry writing.
In any case, this poem reminded me of that famous composition by Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife on the eve of the First Battle of Bull Run:
-
July the 14th, 1861
Washington D.C.
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days-perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure-and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing-perfectly willing-to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows-when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children-is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death-and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me-perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar-that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night-amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours-always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
Sullivan
Sullivan Ballou died during that very battle, but his wife didn't receive the letter until after the war, when it was found and delivered by the Governor of Rhode Island. The tenderness and selflessness in this letter overwhelms any cries of "sappy" and it almost always brings a tear to my eye hearing it read out loud in the first episode of Ken Burns The Civil War series; I'll often just watch the last 10 minutes of the episode to hear the (condensed) version of the letter read against a view of a cornfield empty except for a cannon silhouetted in the distance against the twilight.
Do not call me, father dear. Do not seek me.
Do not call me, do not wish me back.
We're on a route uncharted, fire and blood erase our track.
On we fly, on wings of thunder, nevermore to sheath our swords.
All of us in battles fallen, not to be brought back by words.
Will there be a rendezvous? I know not. I only know we still must fight.
We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore see light.
-----
Farewell then my son, farewell then my conscience,
my youth and my solace, my one and my only.
And let this farewell be the end of the story,
a solitude vast in which none is more lonely.
In which you remain barred, forever and ever,
from light and from air with your death pangs untold.
Untold and unproved, not to be resurrected--
forever and ever, an eighteen year old.
Farewell then. No trains ever come from those regions,
unscheduled or scheduled. No airplanes fly there.
Farewell then my son, for no miracles happen,
as in this world, dreams do not come true.
Farewell.
I will dream of you still as a baby,
treading the earth with little strong toes,
the earth where so many already lie buried.
This song to my son, then, has come to its close.
This poem affects me deeply; the cadence, subtle rhyme scheme and the simple yet devastating descriptive power of the simple statements make this an amazing translation. I don't speak Russian, but I suspect that there's probably even more to admire when reading it in its native tongue. Was this some undiscovered poet writing to dredge his feelings during the darkest days he'd ever seen, or an actual letter written in preparation for the writer's death. The latter seems improbable, given the skill of the writing, but then again that may have been a partial creation and refinement of the translator. The former isn't as improbable, but I'd guess that it's a combination of the two--a letter in verse form, written over some period of time, during the period from when the obvious intimation of death on the part of the author manifested itself and his death. Considering that he died just less than a year after the initial German invasion of Russia, and that he was a low-ranking commissioned officer, I'd say that he was relatively sure that the conditions in which the poem was written was one in which he had a period of relative quiet or relaxation, to compose, awaiting what to him seemed to be (and apparently was) a final action in which he expected to lose his life.
Of course, he could've written the whole thing while lying in a hospital, mortally wounded, but then again when you're dying and either in great pain or in a morphine droop, you're not really in any shape to do fine poetry writing.
In any case, this poem reminded me of that famous composition by Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife on the eve of the First Battle of Bull Run:
-
July the 14th, 1861
Washington D.C.
My very dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days-perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.
Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure-and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing-perfectly willing-to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.
But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows-when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children-is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?
I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death-and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.
I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and "the name of honor that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me-perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar-that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night-amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours-always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.
As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God's blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.
Sullivan
Sullivan Ballou died during that very battle, but his wife didn't receive the letter until after the war, when it was found and delivered by the Governor of Rhode Island. The tenderness and selflessness in this letter overwhelms any cries of "sappy" and it almost always brings a tear to my eye hearing it read out loud in the first episode of Ken Burns The Civil War series; I'll often just watch the last 10 minutes of the episode to hear the (condensed) version of the letter read against a view of a cornfield empty except for a cannon silhouetted in the distance against the twilight.