Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Kenneth Patchen’s "Behold, One of Several Little Christs" is an intense, sprawling poem that grapples with themes of violence, guilt, innocence, and the perversion of spiritual symbols in a world dominated by brutality. Through its fragmented structure and shifting tones, the poem paints a vivid, disturbing picture of humanity’s capacity for cruelty while simultaneously wrestling with the remnants of compassion and redemption. Patchen’s use of religious imagery—particularly the repeated invocation of Christ-like figures—serves to highlight the contrast between ideals of purity and the grim realities of human behavior, especially in the context of war.

The poem begins with the proclamation of a "curiously haunted ugly face," introducing one of several "little Christs." This figure is both grotesque and holy, a blend that immediately sets the tone for the poem’s exploration of the tension between sanctity and sin. The "little Christ" crouches beneath "the first and the last," likely referencing the biblical Alpha and Omega, symbols of God’s eternal presence. Yet, instead of offering comfort, this figure embraces the speaker with "horrible arms," exhaling "fetid breath" and issuing "fearful threats of death and of judgment." This inversion of the traditional image of Christ transforms the savior into a figure of terror, reflecting how spiritual ideals can be twisted into instruments of fear and control.

Patchen quickly grounds this abstract spiritual struggle in the brutal, physical reality of war. The "war-boots" of unnamed "bigshots" clatter against the "plank floor," setting a militaristic, oppressive scene. The speaker identifies as "the timorous mouse," contrasting the vulnerability of the individual with the overwhelming force of militaristic authority. The line "take aim at my wee brown eye and you will hit William T. God" blends dark humor with biting critique, equating the death of the common soldier with an act of divine violence, as if God himself is complicit in the carnage.

The introduction of "Leather Face" and his leader signals a descent into even more explicit brutality. Leather Face reveres his leader, describing him as a "strong boy" with "the dirt of many marches on his soul." This dirt is not just literal grime from the battlefield but symbolic of moral corruption accumulated through acts of violence. The imagery of "swarms of camp fires" in the "bush-country" and "lions like bastard druids" evokes a primal, almost ritualistic environment, where soldiers are drawn into a savage dance with death. The dismissive reference to patriotic symbols—"not believing the stuff about flags after you have seen a man dance / Rope-necked on a dirty platform"—underscores the hollowness of nationalist rhetoric when confronted with the raw, dehumanizing reality of war.

Amid this landscape of violence, the speaker introduces a moment of tenderness: "Beautiful my heart said when I saw her. / She was very young and everything good was in her face." This young woman represents innocence, a stark contrast to the surrounding brutality. The speaker’s reflection that he "could have been Christ if she had touched me" suggests that her purity could have redeemed him, offering a path to salvation through love and connection. However, this potential for redemption is violently snatched away when the leader orders, "Nail her to the door," and the soldiers comply, driving knives through her hands and feet in a grotesque parody of the crucifixion.

The speaker does not turn away from this atrocity, claiming, "I did not turn my face away." This line reflects both complicity and a refusal to escape the harsh truth of the moment. The inability—or unwillingness—to intervene highlights the complex interplay between guilt, helplessness, and the numbing effect of prolonged exposure to violence. The speaker identifies as a "singer of songs," yet laments that "there is no one listening now," suggesting that art and beauty have lost their power in a world consumed by brutality.

The poem then spirals into a surreal, almost apocalyptic meditation on the consequences of this violence. The "Flame of all the world, honor of the wounded tiger," and "the battlements of salt / That man has against the howling dark" evoke images of both natural beauty and human fortification against the inevitable encroachment of chaos and death. The young woman’s death is described in painfully tender detail—her "pigeon-mouthed death" that "coos and trills over the fogsweet deeps of her flesh"—emphasizing the grotesque juxtaposition of innocence and violence.

Patchen’s imagery grows increasingly surreal and nightmarish. The lines "There is the sneer of the bat and the gull's fang, / There is a lobster beating his breast and singing," create a disorienting, absurdist vision of a world gone mad. The lobster’s proclamation—"I am the answer to your prayer, sugar"—blends the sacred with the profane, mocking the idea of divine intervention or salvation in the face of such pervasive cruelty. This absurdity reflects the speaker’s disillusionment with traditional sources of comfort and meaning, suggesting that in a world so steeped in violence, even the most grotesque images offer as much solace as the once-revered symbols of faith.

As the poem nears its conclusion, the soldiers’ exhaustion and confusion become apparent. The leader’s complaint—"Why isn't she dead"—signals frustration at the persistence of life and innocence in the face of overwhelming brutality. The imagery of the "lanterns beginning to look silly" and "birds pleading with something out in the swamp" evokes a sense of eerie, surreal stagnation, as if time itself has become distorted in the wake of their actions.

The final lines of the poem are among its most powerful. The woman’s blood forms a "river that we had no fit equipment to cross," suggesting that her death has created an insurmountable moral and emotional barrier for the soldiers. Her hand "fallen over the city that we hoped to take" implies that her innocence casts a shadow over their violent ambitions, symbolizing the cost of their conquest. The description of her hair "praying here over all of us" extends her presence beyond death, turning her into a Christ-like figure whose suffering encompasses not just the guilty but "the whole human pack"—the pure and the evil, the lost and the hunted.

In "Behold, One of Several Little Christs," Kenneth Patchen crafts a searing indictment of human cruelty and the ways in which violence corrupts both the individual and the collective soul. The poem’s fragmented structure, shifting between surreal imagery and brutal realism, mirrors the disorientation and moral confusion experienced by those caught in cycles of violence. Through the repeated use of Christ-like imagery, Patchen highlights the perversion of spiritual ideals in the face of war and suffering, suggesting that humanity has become desensitized to both its own brutality and the potential for redemption. Ultimately, the poem is a haunting meditation on the loss of innocence and the enduring, if fragile, presence of compassion in a world overwhelmed by darkness.

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