the morning after
—Coventry Cathedral, February 1940
John Piper
those broken slabs of colour were waiting
in november slanting light
the morning after the nighttime raid
a cubist composition of total war
a hint of what all of us were in for
right up to a two dimensional
Hiroshima, end plate of this album
put away among all the others:
frozen history, the rubble
of medieval stone, Christian
Europe eating its own,
Asia poisoned, the world convulsed
until the holy light of the atom
irreducible ultimate
sucked all colour from creation
but on that cold morning
propped on still hot saints
infernal smoke in the nose
someone saw beauty in light
and stone and the ordinary business
of cleaning up the mess
and getting on to tomorrow
the new apocalypse
—Shelterers in the Tube, 1941
Henry Moore
the colours of judgement day
are black and white
wrapped in grey earth we lie and wait
above, the busy din of angels:
the wailing siren, the crump
and shake of heavenly wrath
it’s time to hide pull close the covers
and will the flickering light of life
to stay alight for one more mortal moment
before the earth will part
and we will be sucked upward
in pillars of transforming flame
to face the awful truth
that it is not God nor Beëlzebub
nor frightful Moloch
who consumes us in the fiery furnace
but our neighbor and ourselves
the black and white of rage and love
perspective
—Landscape of the Vernal Equinox, 1943
Paul Nash
the hill the tree the moon
of such things
is the world composed
spring in the middle
of that war which gave me life
and took so many others
a place a time
the rigid geometry
of all compositions
vanishing points
of sentences
the hill the tree the moon
setting the scene
—Human Laundry, Belsen, April 1945
Doris Zinkeisen
the dead and near dead are being washed
laid out on cots in converted stables
bleached skin and bones groomed
by well-fed guards in butchers’ aprons
this is the post-war world
the sudden shift from abattoir to hospice
how did she make sense of this?
one week the smell of burning flesh
the next carbolic and rice gruel
pre war she designed for noël and gertie
dressed mannequins and sketched lalique
and then the curtain dropped, scene change
and here we are as the players pack up
the tragedy complete, the dead carried off
the audience sent home to lick their wounds
and on the washing lines across five continents
soiled sheets will flap in cleansing winds
and shrouds wrap lovers in a sun-struck world
war artist
—Nuremburg Trial, January 1946
Laura Knight
‘the ordinariness of evil’—don’t you believe it:
‘unser Hermann’ sits opposite me,
his enormous head wobbles, the grin
waxes and wanes like the tide, his
eyes sparkle, he jokes, and nudges,
then falls into a dark mood—he is
the weather we’ve been sheltering from
these six long years, cyclonic egos
who have unhoused and killed millions
it’s hard to be dispassionate, that chin,
like a tyrol rock shelf, the sleek seal skin,
how they filled Speer’s arc-lit spaces
no different from Ingres’ Napoleon, or
busts of Caesar or Hadrian, the ego
celebrated, the petty man obliterated
but here that day I saw it all, even down
to the fountain pen in his bank manager’s suit
which hid the cyanide signature on his great work
the leader
—Winston Churchill, 1954
Graham Sutherland
the war is nine years gone, and after seven
years of famine, call it ‘rationing’, and seven
years of ‘never having it so good’ to come
Pharaoh sits on his commoner’s throne,
rotund in plenty, still glorying in triumph
over his teetotal, vegetarian antithesis
he is Empire in an age of existential doubt
Victorian certainty in a ruined Europe
ruthless to protect decency and law
his purpose to keep the scepter in its isle
and this above all—to be victor
and write the history of his times
no wonder he thought this portrait ‘filthy’—
its after-the-war-to-end-all-wars modernism
shows true colours seeping through a public varnish
and in that bull-dog certainty one can see
doubt, the scars of 1945’s rejection
and the scowl and defiance that anyone else
should make a likeness
Poem
The Art of War—Europe
Julian Croft