Wilfred Owen is a name that resonates with the power of words and the tragedy of war. Born on March 18, 1893, in Oswestry, Shropshire, England, Owen’s life was cut short during World War I. Despite his untimely demise, his poetry continues to captivate readers and shed light on the horrors of war.
War Experience and Poetry:
In 1915, Owen enlisted in the British Army and was sent to the Western Front in France. He experienced firsthand the horrors of trench warfare, witnessing the devastating effects of gas attacks, artillery bombardments, and the loss of comrades. These experiences deeply impacted Owen and fueled his desire to convey the reality of war through his poetry.
A tragic end.
Wilfred Owen’s death occurred on November 4, 1918, just one week before the Armistice that ended World War I. He was killed in action during the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal in France while leading his men into battle.
On November 11, 1918, Wilfred Owens brother was returning to his cabin on board a ship stationed off the coast of Africa. Sadly, he had not yet heard the news that his brother had been killed. On entering his cabin, he saw Wilfred sitting in a chair,smiling. Slowly, he faded away. What Harold must have felt and thought at seeing this…
Recognition and Legacy
Owen’s poetry is characterised by its raw and vivid imagery, exposing the physical and psychological toll of war. His works often challenge the glorification of war and expose the harsh realities faced by soldiers on the front lines. Some of his most renowned poems include “Anthem for Doomed Youth,” “Dulce et Decorum Est,” and “Strange Meeting.”
Despite his talent, Owen’s poetry did not gain significant recognition during his lifetime. It was only after his death that his friend and fellow poet, Siegfried Sassoon, worked tirelessly to publish Owen’s poems and ensure his legacy. In 1920, Owen’s collection of poems, “Poems,” was published, solidifying his place as one of the most influential war poets of his time.
Owen’s poetry continues to resonate with readers today, offering a poignant reminder of the human cost of war.
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 our 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.
“Dulce et Decorum Est,
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