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Customer reviews

4.9 out of 5 stars
9

on 27 August 2013
I was unaware of Keith Douglas (or indeed of any "war poets" who saw action in WW2) until I read extracts of "Vergissemeinicht" in a book about the 1942 desert campaign. So far I have only scratched the surface of that and his contemporaneous works from 1942 onwards, but these are indeed poems of rare power, made poignant by Douglas's death in action not long after D-Day
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on 28 March 2014
The truly sad thing about this collection is that the writer died so tragically young. If the poems in this collection are any indication, he would have had a career of immense distinction. As it is, he at least rivals Rupert Brooke, Siegfried Sassoon, and other war poets who are much more famous. What a desperate loss he was.
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on 14 June 2016
I had read some of his poetry years ago and knew little of him but having read the biography of Ted Hughes he has quite a mention and I thought I would like to read more, hence the purchase. A very interesting collection.
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on 14 April 2013
It had been a while since I'd read the poems by Douglas that normally appear in anthologies. This is an excellent edition (complete with gatefolds!) and it's fascinating to see the development of his poems from the age of 16 until his sadly early death at 24.
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on 11 July 2014
just what daughter needed for studies
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on 29 May 2014
I searched for this book having heard Clive James read one very emotional poem.
The book arrived promptly and was in a good condition.
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on 11 August 2014
fine
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on 3 December 2000
Keith Douglas wrote a poetry boasting an incantatory and muscular lyricism that few others of his generation matched. He could carry off sentimental themes effectively because he used language that never blinked or swooned. Yet his tough,verbal carapaces sheltered a heart that bled to see "how easy it is to make a ghost". He was just beginning to find his own voice when he was killed in 1944. What were his influences? His poetry contain traces of the arch-modernist T S Eliot, recalling the latter's whimsical tone in "The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock": "Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake/a pasty Syrian with a few words of English/or the Turk who says she is a princess" ("Cairo Jag".) Or Douglas recalled William Blake and his conversational apocalypticism, when "he looks at the sea/and does not smell its animal smell/Does not suspect the heaven or hell/in the mind of a passerby" ("Egytpian sentry). He even recalls WH Auden's opinionated rhythms: "I praise a snakeskin or a stone: a bald head or a public speech I hate" ("Snakeskin and Stone". Occasionally, Douglas conjured Matthew Arnold of "Dover Beach" fame, where "Everywhere is a real of artificial race/of life, a struggle of everyone to be/master or mistress of some hour." ("Egyptian sentry"). But perhaps his most characteristic influence was John Donne and the conceits of the Metaphysical poets: "Can I explain this to you? Your eyes/are entrances the mouths of caves - I issue from wonderful interiors/upon a blessed sea and a fine day/from inside these caves I look and dream". The telegrammatic sharpness and urgency of his language remained taut throughout his short writing life. Even as a precocious fourteen year old, he wrote with a disciplined terseness: "The small men walk about antlike/and the bell tolls. God created these/beautiful and angular, not different", when many others of his age might be experimenting with the verbal luxuriance of Keats or liquid verbosity of Shakespeare. However, the key to the poetry of this very unEnglish poet, more of a Latin with his impulsive temperament, is contained in several loving translations of Arthur Rimbaud, which gives us a clue as to how the twentysomething tank commander perceived himself and his poetry. Translating Rimbaud, a tortured young French symbolist poet who gave up writing at 20, Douglas premonitions his own death from shellfire shrapnel in "Le Dormeur du Val", where "A young soldier with bare head and mouth open/and his neck immersed in the fresh blue flowers/is sleeping stretched out in grass under heaven/pale in his green bed where the light showers". The sentimentalisation of a hero's death and the Romantic liebestode is at odds with his saner observation elsewhere: "How can I live among this gentle/obsolsecent breed of heroes, and not weep?" (Aristocrats), suggesting a fundamental tension in his personality and work, between cool sobriety and dramatic passion, which remained unresolved, perhaps because he failed to find personal reconcilation in what he called the "rose of love" ("I experiment"). Ultimately, Douglas demands not to be judged by his immature outbursts, or sentimental dreaminess, but by his tough yet humane response to what "the others never set eyes on". He implores us in "Tel Aviv": "Do not laugh because I have made a poem;/it is to use what then we could not handle/words too dangerous then, knowing their explosive/or incendiary tendencies when we are so close-/if i had said this to you then, BANG will/have gone our walls of indifference in flame."
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on 9 February 2012
arrived on time well wrapped and as described what more can I say.. it was for a gift and was well received.
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