Log in

No account? Create an account
01 April 2003 @ 11:50 am
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
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.
     - Wilfred Owen

I find that there are certain poems, read as far back as high school, that still speak to me today. So, for today's selection...
Feeling like: thoughtfulthoughtful
Listening to: poetry in my head
(Anonymous) on April 1st, 2003 10:39 am (UTC)
You rock, girl. Wilfred Owen is my favorite poet ever.

Did you know he died in the war? He was wounded, and wrote all his poems in the hospital while he was recovering. Then they sent him back out to the front lines, where he died. End of story. No more poet.

That's probably why I hate war.
   Anthem for Doomed Youth

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.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;  
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, – 
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;  
And bugles calling for them from sad shires. 
What candles may be held to speed them all?  
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes  
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.  
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
                                  - Wilfred Owen
(Anonymous) on April 1st, 2003 10:41 am (UTC)
Er, are wa Mei (http://meichan.pitas.com) datta. Gomen.
Qarylla Windragarqarylla on April 2nd, 2003 08:32 am (UTC)
Ii wa yo.

I can only assume that my English prof in high school told us of Wilfred Owen's life (considering he told us about other authors and poets), but I had forgotten. Thank you for the reminder.

That reminds me. Must purchase a Norton's Anthology of Poetry sometime this summer. ^_^;