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Hectic Stasis: The War Poetry of Keith Douglas

Since his death in 1944, Keith Douglas's reputation as a poet has grown considerably, but fitfully. Largely disregarded for his imaginative daring by the Movement writers, he appealed to poets a half-generation younger than himself, who found in him a stark vitality, a counterforce to what was, for them, the drably mechanical verse being written in the 1950s. Ted Hughes hailed Douglas's 'burning exploratory freshness of mind'; Geoffrey Hill praised a 'fearlessness of the imagination.' Yet Hill's assessment in 1964 of Douglas's ambivalent stature—'at once "established" and overlooked'—remains relevant today. 'Established,' one might say, and 'avoided,' for it is the particular ability of Douglas's art to disconcert. The best of the war poems exhibit a coolness, a bracing diffidence and restraint. The sort of stoic verve that Yeats captures in his 'Irish Airman' Douglas can match in the icy bravura of 'How to Kill.'