Biography of Isaac Rosenberg
I have included this biography of Isaac Rosenberg because at 'The Pity of War' event
I read his celebrated poem 'Break of Day in the Trenches'.
I read his celebrated poem 'Break of Day in the Trenches'.
Isaac Rosenberg was born in Bristol on 25th November 1890, the second child of impoverished Jewish Russian immigrants, Dovbar and Hacha Davidov Rosenberg. In 1897 the family moved to the East End of London, where he attended St George's School and then the Baker Street Board School in Stepney. Artistically gifted, he went to art sessions at Stepney Green Art School and Birkbeck College; and subsequently to the Slade School of Art, where his fees were paid by wealthy patrons. But his interest was turning to poetry. He sent some poems to the established poet Lawrence Binyon, who on meeting him was impressed by the young man. Rosenberg was acquiring important friends. In 1912 he privately published* 'Night and Day', a twenty-four page pamphlet of ten poems.
Having no prospect of a job, although he despised war he enlisted in October 1915 so that he could send money to his parents. Of small stature, he joined the Bantam Battalion of the 12th Suffolk Regiment and was later transferred to The King's Own Royal Lancaster Bantam Regiment. After a period of training, in June 1916 he arrived with his battalion in France and they went straight to the trenches, with 'shells bursting two yards off (and) bullets whistling all over the show'. The conditions in the trenches were appalling, but somehow he managed to write poems there and sent them home for safe keeping. Regarded as among the finest of the war poems, they were collected and published posthumously in 1922.
As a private**, the tasks assigned to him were arduous as well as dangerous and his health was not good. In September 1916, after returning from ten days home leave, he was admitted to a military hospital with influenza. By January 1917 he was back in the trenches and on 19th March his battalion moved into the front line near Arras. On 1st April he failed to return from a wiring patrol. His remains were later found and are buried in a British War Cemetery outside Arras.
* In 1915, before enlisting, he privately published another poetry collection, 'Youth', and was bitterly disappointed when it sold only ten copies.
** He had refused an offer to become a Lance Corporal.
Having no prospect of a job, although he despised war he enlisted in October 1915 so that he could send money to his parents. Of small stature, he joined the Bantam Battalion of the 12th Suffolk Regiment and was later transferred to The King's Own Royal Lancaster Bantam Regiment. After a period of training, in June 1916 he arrived with his battalion in France and they went straight to the trenches, with 'shells bursting two yards off (and) bullets whistling all over the show'. The conditions in the trenches were appalling, but somehow he managed to write poems there and sent them home for safe keeping. Regarded as among the finest of the war poems, they were collected and published posthumously in 1922.
As a private**, the tasks assigned to him were arduous as well as dangerous and his health was not good. In September 1916, after returning from ten days home leave, he was admitted to a military hospital with influenza. By January 1917 he was back in the trenches and on 19th March his battalion moved into the front line near Arras. On 1st April he failed to return from a wiring patrol. His remains were later found and are buried in a British War Cemetery outside Arras.
* In 1915, before enlisting, he privately published another poetry collection, 'Youth', and was bitterly disappointed when it sold only ten copies.
** He had refused an offer to become a Lance Corporal.
Break of Day in the Trenches
by Isaac Rosenberg
The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever, Only a live thing leaps my hand, A queer sardonic rat, As I pull the parapet’s poppy To stick behind my ear. Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies. Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between. It seems you inwardly grin as you pass Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes, Less chanced than you for life, Bonds to the whims of murder, Sprawled in the bowels of the earth, The torn fields of France. What do you see in our eyes At the shrieking iron and flame Hurled through still heavens? What quaver—what heart aghast? Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe-- Just a little white with the dust*. * In an earlier poem he described plucking two poppies and giving one to a comrade; a shell landed and his companion was killed while he was covered in dust. |