Poems List

At a Calvary Near the Ancre

At a Calvary Near the Ancre
One ever hangs where shelled roads part.
In this war He too lost a limb,
But His disciples hide apart;
And now the Soldiers bear with Him.
Near Golgotha strolls many a priest,
And in their faces there is pride
That they were flesh-marked by the Beast
By whom the gentle Christ's denied
The scribes on all the people shove
And bawl allegiance to the state,
But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life; they do not hate
162

An Imperial Elegy

An Imperial Elegy
Not one corner of a foreign field
But a span as wide as Europe;
An appearance of a titan's grave,
And the length thereof a thousand miles,
It crossed all Europe like a mystic road,
Or as the Spirits' Pathway lieth on the night.
And I heard a voice crying
This is the Path of Glory.
138

Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

Apologia Pro Poemate Meo
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.
Merry it was to laugh there--
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.
I, too, have dropped off fear--
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear,
Past the entanglement where hopes lie strewn;
And witnessed exhultation--
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul.
I have made fellowships--
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long.
By joy, whose ribbon slips,--
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but a trembling of a flare
And heaven but a highway for a shell,
You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.
162

A Terre

A Terre
(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)
Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me -- brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
I tried to peg out soldierly -- no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals? -- Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons? -- Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)
A short life and a merry one, my brick!
We used to say we'd hate to live dead old, --
Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that's what I learnt, -- that, and making money.
Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever,
I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?
I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?
O Life, Life, let me breathe, -- a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the existences rats lead --
Nosing along at night down some safe vat,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death,
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
"I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone."
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned;
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.


"Pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know.
To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if . . .
Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me, -- as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.
Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.
Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.
158

War broke: and now the Winter of the world

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,
Rending the sails of progress. Rent or furled
Are all Art's ensigns. Verse wails. Now begin
Famines of thought and feeling. Love's wine's thin.
The grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.
For after Spring had bloomed in early Greece,
And Summer blazed her glory out with Rome,
An Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,
A slow grand age, and rich with all increase.
But now, for us, wild Winter, and the need
Of sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed.
161

[I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson]

[I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson]
[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,
And a last splendour burn the heavens of his cheek.
And in his eyes
The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak,
In different skies.
159

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Identification and basic context

Wilfred Owen is widely recognized as one of the most important poets of World War I. He wrote in English and is celebrated for his poignant and realistic portrayal of the soldier's experience in the trenches.

Childhood and education

Owen was born into a moderately prosperous family. He received a good education, which included attendance at schools like the Birkenhead Institute and the Technical School in Shrewsbury. His early life and schooling exposed him to literature and fostered his developing poetic sensibilities.

Literary trajectory

Owen began writing poetry at a young age. His experiences as a soldier during World War I profoundly influenced his mature work. He became associated with other war poets, notably Siegfried Sassoon, who encouraged and mentored him. His most significant poems were written during his service in the war, often amidst the harsh conditions of the front lines. His work gained widespread recognition primarily after his death.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Owen's most famous works include "Dulce et Decorum Est," "Anthem for Doomed Youth," and "Strange Meeting." His poetry is characterized by its direct and often brutal depiction of the physical and psychological trauma of war. He used vivid imagery, powerful metaphors, and a somber tone to convey the horror and waste of conflict. Owen experimented with form, often employing traditional structures like sonnets but infusing them with modern, raw subject matter. His language is evocative, capturing the sounds and sights of the battlefield with stark realism. His poetic voice is deeply empathetic, speaking for the suffering soldiers.

Cultural and historical context

Owen lived and wrote during the tumultuous period of World War I, a conflict that reshaped the world. His poetry stands in stark contrast to the jingoistic propaganda that often characterized the early years of the war. He belonged to a generation of poets whose experiences were irrevocably shaped by the unprecedented scale of industrial warfare. His work challenged the prevailing patriotic narratives and offered a critical perspective on the war.

Personal life

Owen's personal life was deeply intertwined with his wartime experiences. His profound empathy for his fellow soldiers fueled his poetic output. He formed significant friendships with fellow poets and officers who shared his disillusionment with the war. His experiences on the front lines, including being wounded and suffering from shell shock, profoundly impacted his mental and emotional state.

Recognition and reception

While Owen's poems were not widely published during his lifetime, their posthumous publication, notably in the collection *Poems* (1920) edited by Siegfried Sassoon, brought him significant acclaim. He is now considered a canonical figure in English poetry and a crucial voice for the generation that experienced the horrors of World War I. His work continues to be studied and revered for its honesty and power.

Influences and legacy

Owen was influenced by earlier poets, but his unique experiences forged a new path in war poetry. He, in turn, profoundly influenced subsequent generations of poets who grappled with themes of conflict, trauma, and social injustice. His unflinching portrayal of war set a benchmark for literary responses to conflict. His poems remain essential reading for understanding the human cost of war.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Owen's poetry is often analyzed for its anti-war message, its psychological depth, and its formal innovations. Critics examine how he balanced traditional poetic forms with the brutal realities of modern warfare, creating a powerful and enduring artistic testament to the suffering of soldiers.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his profound empathy, Owen was a commissioned officer, a complex position for someone so critical of the war's leadership and aims. He reportedly wrote some of his most famous poems while recovering from injuries sustained in battle.

Death and memory

Wilfred Owen was killed in action on November 4, 1918, just one week before the Armistice. His death in the final days of the war became a poignant symbol of the immense loss of life. He is commemorated in literature and memory as a poet who gave voice to the voiceless suffering of soldiers.