Busseboom, famous place, lies between Poperinge and Ouderdom. Can’t place it? How about if I say it lies in Flanders, north-west Belgium near the French border. In World War 1 Busseboom was in the support area behind the Western Front and Ypres.
Perfect place for a concert party. Edmund Blunden fought at Ypres, at the Somme and at Passchendaele. His poetry was encouraged by Siegried Sassoon who seems to have been a great man for encouraging others to express their horror in verse. Sassoon was the muse of the War Poets.
Blunden survived the war, physically, but the mental scars remained with him all his life. He could never scrape off the sticky mud of Flanders Fields. He went on to a successful career in writing and academia, and was nominated a number of times for a Nobel prize in literature.
October 31st has come and gone in 2019, one hundred years beyond the Great War. What have we learned? Brexit remains on the cards. The British Parliament persists with the madness of departing from the European Union; the greatest source of peace in the history of mankind. The British people want to go back to the good old days when you could kick a man to death in a dark tunnel beneath the carnage of the Western Front. In doing so they dishonour the memories of Blunden, Sassoon, Brooke, Graves and Owen.
Happy Birthday Edmund Blunden, born November 1st, 1896.
Concert Party: Busseboom ; by Edmund Blunden
The stage was set, the house was packed,
the famous troop began;
our laughter thundered, act by act;
time light as sunbeams ran.
Dance sprang and spun and neared and fled,
jest chirped at gayest pitch,
rhythm dazzled, action sped
most comically rich.
With generals and lame privates both
such charms worked wonders, till
the show was over – lagging loth
we faced the sunset chill;
and standing on the sandy way,
with the cracked church peering past,
we heard another matinée,
we heard the maniac blast
of barrage south by Saint Eloi,
and the red lights flaming there
called madness: Come, my bonny boy,
and dance to the latest air.
To this new concert, white we stood;
cold certainty held our breath;
while men in tunnels below Larch Wood
were kicking men to death.