The Glory of a Bright Yesterday

As we near Remembrance Sunday, I would like to recall Rex Whistler, the soldier-artist who died in Normandy in 1944. John Gielgud wrote to Alec Guinness about it and said: 'Whistler's death is a major tragedy... he wanted to prove that artists can be tough and alas, he has done so - but the world is greatly the poorer for his sacrifice'.

Rest easy, brother - the poppy I wear is for you.

The Hanging

“I have kissed every maid in Gadebridge (except one), and three of them three times each. And of course I have kissed Miss Barr twice”.

- Rex Whistler, in a letter to his brother

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I?The Garden

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Here is the green of England,

a love of strict observance:

all its apple dampness and barleycorn

the trees robed with honeysuckle

the earth sweet with violets

I rush to sketch them, trap them in paper

my white hand racing

my black pen sparking

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II?Academy

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London is the rush of it:

painting the stairwells gold

the surgeons dispensing patronage, commissions

salons, lobster crackerjack: caramels, popcorn

champagnes, pell-mell, the restaurants in paint

kisses in alcohol and

the wine bubbling:

in the eunuch pleasures, in the begetting pleasures

London, you are the fever book of life

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III?Work

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You start with white:

then china, scraper board and the nib niggling

add the milk and honey running from the vein

(the emperor heart, a rich purple there)

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hazel jelly to glaze the landscape

with veil lilies in the foreground

let the lines mortar together

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And Axminster lives in stone

IV?War

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We are what we wear

the wearing makes us

and so I don the dress of males

the press of gauged cloth, greenfire

gilded, epaulette

gold’s heavy yellow pressing on the shoulders

a ready livery

to play the game of war

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V?Landfall

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A sand wind in Normandy

stirs and settles the marsh grass

anointing the air with tar

(the armies roll with amber dice)

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The tank churns the earth and water

driving together, steel pleats and clotted brown

a cream of mud drying in the sun

our armor wearing:

twenty wooden crosses

my pail of paint and brushes

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VI?The Lion

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So this is death

a mortar shell, a lion in gold

leaping to the afternoon sun

cold fanged kisses on my nape

foam and fur, a roaring in the air

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So this is death

the crack of bone, the bloodless break of neck

and here I lie in my charcoal uniform

my face stubbed in chalk

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VII?Remains

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There were three ravens sat on a tree:

they were as black as they might be:

The one of them said to his mate;

“Where shall we our breakfast take?

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“Down in yonder green field

there lies a Knight slain under his?shield

his Hounds they lie down at his feet

his Hawkes they soar above him”.

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VIII?A form of Epitaph

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Bright consort of my shroud

the tread twitches

and there is nothing in me that is not dead

but it is necessary

it has become necessary

for my salvation

for me to die