Dulce et Decorum est: Wilfred Owen and Horace

[guy]

One hundred years ago this month, British poet Wilfred Owen died (November 4, 1918) on the war front in France.

Wilfred Owen was one of the leading poets of the First World War. 

(1893–1918)

Owen's poetry was inspired by the horrors of the First World War. He was troubled by the dreary life in the trenches with its incessant and deafening shelling, horrifying gas attacks, and the ever-present specter of death.

His poem, "Dulce et Decorum est," was an ironic interpretation of the famous line from the Roman poet Horace's "Odes" (III.2.13): "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori"   [It is sweet and proper to die for one's country.].

 

DULCE ET DECORUM EST by Wilfred Owen

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,
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.

According to Wikipedia:

Quote

Owen was killed in action on 4 November 1918 during the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal, exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice which ended the war, and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death. His mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day, as the church bells in Shrewsbury were ringing out in celebration. Owen is buried at Ors Communal Cemetery, Ors, in northern France. The inscription on his gravestone, chosen by his mother Susan, is based on a quote from his poetry: "SHALL LIFE RENEW THESE BODIES? OF A TRUTH ALL DEATH WILL HE ANNUL" W.O.

 

One hundred years ago this month, British poet Wilfred Owen died ... but the power of his poetry continues to touch us deeply today.

 

guy also known as gaius

 

 

Edited June 23, 2021 by guy

[caldrail]

It has become clear to me that fame as a poet is in this aspect largely irrelevant. The stories of other common soldiers was every bit as telling albeit less resonant beyond an accepted art form. I will indulge myself here. As a young child I once asked my grandfather what he had done during the First World War. I wasn't expecting tales of heroism, simply tales of his own experience as a matter of curiosity - especially since my parents were grooming me for a career in the armed forces although at that young age I wasn't aware of it.

I remember his face darkening. Quite shocking to me, given he was always a cheerful positive soul. He didn't tell me about derring do, comradery, or the acts of courage on the battlefield. He told me about the privations of life in the trenches, the ever present threats, the grim reality of being part of a such a conflict. He even made me promise never to join the Army. It was an agreement that would cast a shadow of my life ever since but he was a good man, and I will stand by that agreement even though the choice is now academic given my age.

I learned later how he was sent ashore at Gallipoli, to assist the Australians, in attacks on Turkish trenches. He had made bayonet charges against them and that affected him for the rest of his life. He could never completely rationalise what he had done, knowing in his own words that he had killed some mother's son. In the event, in 1916 he was sent home as a skilled shipwright to the yards on the Tyne, because after the Battle of Jutland there was a huge demand for replacement vessels. That order probably saved his life on the Western Front.

I don't resent the Armed Forces, nor the undesirable conspiracy that took place to persuade me to join the Army to follow my father (of whom I have rather less respect). I agree they are protectors of freedom and life despite their violent profession, for in the course of human activity, aggression is part of politics, even everyday life. My path was to be different. My awakening self determination as a young man, my increasing resentment of parental influence, and my own desires to forge a path unique to myself would dominate. But whilst I might not make big noises about the tragedies of the Guns of August, I do nonetheless respect the price they paid as what they considered their national duty and moral imperative, whatever our contemporary revision of history might say, for I remember the words of one veteran at least.

[guy]

Caldrail: Thank you very much for your reading my post and sharing your family perspective.

 

 

Here is a portion of Wilfred Owen's last letter written to his mother just days before his death on November 4, 1918:

 

Quote

 

There is no danger down here - or if any, it will be well over before you read these lines.

I hope you are as warm as I am, as serene in your room as I am here; and that you think of me never in bed as resignedly as I think of you always in bed. Of this I am certain you could not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as surround me here."

Ever Wilfred X

 

http://advancingpoetry.blogspot.com/2013/10/his-last-letter.html

 

 

 

Edited November 14, 2021 by guy