Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
...
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
...
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
...
Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
...
War broke: and now the Winter of the world
With perishing great darkness closes in.
The foul tornado, centred at Berlin,
Is over all the width of Europe whirled,
...
I
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
...
War's a joke for me and you,
Wile we know such dreams are true.
- Siegfried Sassoon
...
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
...
The beautiful, the fair, the elegant,
Is that which pleases us, says Kant,
Without a thought of interest or advantage.
...
1 Move him into the sun--
2 Gently its touch awoke him once,
3 At home, whispering of fields unsown.
4 Always it awoke him, even in France,
...
Seeing we never found gay fairyland
(Though still we crouched by bluebells moon by moon)
And missed the tide of Lethe; yet are soon
For that new bridge that leaves old Styx half-spanned;
...
1 Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
2 How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
3 Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
4 And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.
...
All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
...
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
...
[I saw his round mouth's crimson deepen as it fell],
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Clouding, half gleam, half glower,
...
'Oh! Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!
Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
...
Cramped in that funnelled hole, they watched the dawn
Open a jagged rim around; a yawn
Of death's jaws, which had all but swallowed them
Stuck in the bottom of his throat of phlegm.
...
As bronze may be much beautified
By lying in the dark damp soil,
So men who fade in dust of warfare fade
Fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.
...
Hush, thrush! Hush, missen-thrush, I listen...
I heard the flush of footsteps through the loose leaves,
And a low whistle by the water's brim.
...
I, too, saw God through mud--
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
...
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) was an English poet and soldier who is widely regarded as one of the most important literary figures of World War I. Owen was born in Oswestry, England, and he attended school at Shrewsbury Technical School before working as a lay assistant to the vicar of Dunsden. He enlisted in the British Army in 1915 and was sent to the Western Front, where he saw active service in the trenches. Throughout his time in the army, Owen continued to write poetry, and his work was heavily influenced by his experiences of war and the suffering he witnessed. His poetry is known for its stark realism, its emotional intensity, and its condemnation of the horrors of war. Some of Owen's most famous poems include "Anthem for Doomed Youth," "Dulce et Decorum Est," and "Strange Meeting." His work was published posthumously after he was killed in action in France in November 1918, just one week before the Armistice that ended the war. Today, Owen's poetry is widely studied and admired for its powerful and moving depiction of the realities of war, and he is remembered as a significant voice in the literature of the First World War.
He went to Birkenhead Institute, Liverpool, and Shrewsbury Technical College for his education. He worked as a pupil-teacher in a poor country parish before being forced to abandon his plans to study at the University of London. Before, he took up a teaching position in Bordeaux due to a lack of funds.
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.-
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
iam doing it for my anthology and finding it hard to analyse it..... dulce et decorum est was more interesting......need help
Unfortunately, this is not a very representative collection of his works. He wrote some excellent, more light-hearted poetry, as well as the very emotive war poems, and to round off your knowledge of this wonderful poet, I would advise going to the bookshop and purchasing an anthology of his work. A couple of decades ago, there was an excellent book entitled 'Up the Line to Death', which concentrated primarily on the war poems of men such as Owen, Sassoon, Graves, Brooke - but also included a fair share of their other work. See if you can find something similar, and enjoy 'Shadwell Stair', for example.
Excellent poem. Yes i'm 13 granted but yeah, i still like it.
Dulce et Decorum Est os a very good poem. I may only be 14 but this poem speaks about the grimness of war unlike some poets who described it to be excellent.
CONTINUED: Poems such as 'Dulce Decorum Est' and 'Anthem for doomed Youth' have done much to influence our attitudes towards war.TODAY he is chosen as THE POET OF THE DAY! Tuesday 17 Aug 2021. Congratulations to his beloved family nearest to him Most deserving!
His poetry owes its beauty to a deep ingrained sense of compassion coupled with grim realism. Owen is also acknowledged as a technically accomplished poet and master of metrical variety.
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