He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow.
Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,- In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts He asked to join.
He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him.
And no fears Of Fear came yet.
He thought of jewelled hilts For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is!
Why don't they come And put him into bed?
Why don't they come?
Letter from Robert Graves to Wilfred Owen[Circa 17 October 1917]3rd Garr.
Batt.,
R.
W.
F.,
Kinmel Park,
Rhy,
N.
Do you know,
Owen, that's a damn fine poem of yours, that 'Disabled.' Really damn fine!
So good the general sound and weight of the words that the occasional metrical outrages are most surprising.
It's like seeing a golfer drive onto the green in one and then use a cleek instead of a putter, & hole out in twelve.
For instance you have a foot too much
In the old days before he gave away his knees& in He wasn't bothered much by Huns or crimes or guilts& They cheered him home but not as they would cheer a goal& Now he will spend a few sick years in
There is an occasional
Voices of boys& Voices of play and pleasure after
And an occasional clichéGirls glanced lovelierscanty suits of greyI wouldn't worry to metion all this if it wasn't for my violent pleasure at some of the lines like the one about the 'solemn man who brought him fruits' & the 'jewelled hilts of daggers in plaid socks' & the 'Bloodsmear down his leg after the matches'.
Owen, you have seen things; you are a poet; but you're a very careless one at present.
One can't put in too many syllables into a line & say 'Oh, it's all right.
That's my way of writing poetry'.
One has to follow the rules of the meter one adopts.
Make new meters by all means, but one must observe the rules where they are laid down by a custom of centuries.
A painter or musician has no greater task in mastering his colours or his musical modes & harmonies, than a poet.
It's the devil of a sweat for him to get to know the value of his rhymes, rhythms or sentiments.
But I have no doubt at all that if you turned seriously to writing, you could obtain Parnassus in no time while I'm still struggling on the knees of that stubborn peak.
Till then, good luck in the good work.
Yours Robert Graves.
Love to Sassoon.
