Wilfred Owen

By: Gabby Jarman

Background Information
Wilfred Owen was born on the 18th of March 1983 in Oswestry, Britain. He moved to Bordeaux, France in 1913 and became a teacher at Berlitz School of Languages. He enlisted in the Artists Rifles on the 21st of October, 1915 and was sent to France in the winter of 1917. After four months on the front lines Owen was sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital near Edinburgh, Scotland which was a hospital for Shell-Shocked Officers. At this hospital Owen met Siegfried Sassoon, a poet, who greatly influenced Owen into writing some of his most recognized works as Anthem For Doomed Youth and Dulce Et Decorum Est. Wilfred Owen was killed on November 4th, 1918 in The Battle of the Sambre; this was just 7 days before World War One ended.

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 tired, outstripped FiveNines that dropped 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 frothcorrupted 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.

Soldiers Dream
I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; And caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; And rusted every bayonet with His tears. And there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs, Not even an old flint-lock, not even a pikel. But God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael; And when I woke he'd seen to our repairs.

The Last Laugh

'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! And the Big Gun guffawed. Another sighed,'O Mother, -Mother, Dad!' Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead. And the lofty Shrapnelcloud Leisurely gestured,-Fool! And the splinters spat, and tittered.

 'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood, Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud. And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned; Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned; And the Gas hissed.

Disabled
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, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees, And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands. All of them touch him like some queer disease.

 There was an artist silly for his face, For it was younger than his youth, last year. Now, he is old; his back will never brace; He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg, After the matches, carried shoulder-high. It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, He thought he'd better join. He wonders why. Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts, That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

 Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt, And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

 Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole. Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Analysis of Disabled
Disabled is about a young soldier who joins the military because he likes the look of the uniform, wants pay and thinks it will impress girls. He then is sent to France and loses his arms, legs and youth. He returns home to a town that has changed and to people that no longer want anything to do with him. He is neglected by his society and is left to a life of following rules in a hospital while the world passes him by. This poem shows how the Western world paid little attention to the veterans after the war. The boy in the story is regarded as having A queer disease (line 13) and the girls attention which he sought is placed upon men who are uninjured and not him. Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole (Line 43-44) The boy has also lost his youth as is evident in lines 16-19: Now, he is old; his back will never brace; He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race The poem ends with the boy showing how alone and abandoned he is because none of the hospital orderlies have come to wheel him to his room. How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come? (Line 45-46)

Bibliography
http://users.fulladsl.be/spb1667/cultural/owen.html http://www.english.emory.edu/LostPoets/Owen.html http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html http://www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit/education/tutorials/intro/craiglock.html