Book Review, Fairies and Fusiliers by Robert Graves (1918, from iBook Store)

Book Review, Fairies and Fusiliers by Robert Graves (1918, from iBook Store)

Poorly described books like this one have me worried.  None of the descriptions under its headlines really appear to be formal enough for presentation into Robert Graves’ tales for WW1, and, because of the involvement of other poets for this collection, most of these poems are as good as anonymous criticisms.  (Or bad, depending on how you view it.)  Many poems you’ll see in this collection are like poetry for children; they get very simple, sweet, and mask so much of the Earth’s true horrors in relation to war and justice.  Of course Graves would’ve had to bounce around in his poems between justice and corruption.  Barriers exist in the poems, or short stories, or tales, or whatever, because Graves is afraid that someone is talking behind his back (critic, reader, worm, etc.). People or artists like Graves get very nervous while they’re attempting at expression.  Even the sunshine may not seem so new to Graves since he’s just a soldier marching along in his literary fancy.  It’s become apparent to me that seers don’t necessarily bear every witness imaginable during the passing generations between winners and failures; on that mark, I give Robert some credit.  Could he take such praise?  It depends.  He treats the story of David and Goliath as a metaphor; of course, blood, sweat, and tears are reduced into literature on his part since poetry often displays the imagination in works as opposed to exact, real-life videos.  It said the book contained 32 pages.  Instead, I’ve found 97 pages.  So many poems and too many of them to count as anything less than works by unknown authors.  While it may be nice to look at Robert Graves’ poetry at all I wish I could identify them and point them in exact historical references, but, I’m here with just a sack of ingredients and there’s no real label on the sack.  Tokens of appreciation get expressed where there’s no line connecting the dots over names and writers’ appellations.  “To an Ungentle Critic” is a waste of time, naturally.  I was expecting to hear more about the sun’s shifting movements until I realized that whole beginning note or poem was only a ploy on the uninterested readers; maybe that’s Graves’ attitude in general: “Ah!  No one is really interested in this stuff.”  Nature around us ought to show us enough values and details for a poet to express them and this failed attempt by Robert in describing the sunset behind Volnay wine will have to remain undefined, like the rest of the book.