Former US Poet laureate Richard Wilbur saw ferocious combat in both Italy and France as an infantryman during World War Two. Here is Wilbur describing the genesis of one wartime poem.

After we had done the Southern France invasion. We worked our way up through France to Alsace, where we experienced an unusually bitter winter. And this poem, of course, comes out of that first snow in Alsace. The snow came down last night like more burned on the moon. It fell till dawn. Covered the town with simple clubs. Absolute snow.

Lies rumpled on what shell bursts scattered and deranged and tangled railings for a vast lawn. As if it did not know they’d changed. Snow smoothly clasps the roofs of homes. Fear gutted, trustless, and estranged. The ration stacks are milky domes across the ammunition pile. The snow has climbed and sparkling comes. You think beyond the town a mile or two.

This snowfall fills the eyes of soldiers dead a little while.

Persons and persons in disguise. Walking the new air. White and fine. Trade glances quick with shared surprise. Eyes at children’s windows heaped benign as always. Winter shines the most. And frost makes marvelous designs. The night guard coming from his post ten first snows back in thought. Walks slow and warms him with a boyish boast. He was the first to see the snow.

Tags: Poetry