WW1 Poetry
Wilfred Owen
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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.
Source: http://www.english.emory.edu/LostPoets/Dulce.html
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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.
Source: http://www.english.emory.edu/LostPoets/Dulce.html
The green uniform
As I look around the place I used to take for granted, what I see makes me miserable.
How could such thing happen? Happen here?
As I scurry around the chunks of rumble and stone, scanning my tear filled eyes around the scene, something catches my eyes.
As I start to closer, a single sound pierces the silence.
A soft and shallow sounding breath.
I walk cautiously towards the sound feeling anxious as to what I was going to see.
As I gently and slowly pick up a large piece of stone, I feel sick as I see a blood stained green uniform with a lifeless man inside of it.
I don't know what to do, it's too late to try and do anything.
Rest in peace.
As I look around the place I used to take for granted, what I see makes me miserable.
How could such thing happen? Happen here?
As I scurry around the chunks of rumble and stone, scanning my tear filled eyes around the scene, something catches my eyes.
As I start to closer, a single sound pierces the silence.
A soft and shallow sounding breath.
I walk cautiously towards the sound feeling anxious as to what I was going to see.
As I gently and slowly pick up a large piece of stone, I feel sick as I see a blood stained green uniform with a lifeless man inside of it.
I don't know what to do, it's too late to try and do anything.
Rest in peace.
Gallipoli Bay
As I crouch here in a burrow of repulsive mud and filth,
I'm surrounded by bomb shells, used bullet casings, lingering limbs.
There are dozens of men just like me, scared, worried, exhausted, all wanting to know the same thing; are we ever going to see them again?
BOOM!, just ten feet away from me I Hear "QUICK BOYS, RETREAT, RETREAT!!"
A bomb has just been dropped.
All of us men scurry frantically through the foul weather, ducking our heads so we are not seen.
Climbing over rubble, and through barbed wire, there are bayonets blasting in the distance, I hear the faint sound of shouting Turks.
Further on, it begins to pour down, we become restrained and told we can not move on further.
The trenches have become half-filled rivers forcing us to pile sandbag on top of sandbag against the banks to stop the slushy mud from caving in.
As day becomes night, flying bullets shoot over our heads, so strong that they vibrate the roots sticking out of the muddy walls.
But we are not worried.
Some men even talk to the Turks from across the trench, one thing we all have in common:
We are just doing what we have to do for our country.
And as the sun sets over Gallipoli Bay, I hope for peace so that someday this war will be resolved.
As I crouch here in a burrow of repulsive mud and filth,
I'm surrounded by bomb shells, used bullet casings, lingering limbs.
There are dozens of men just like me, scared, worried, exhausted, all wanting to know the same thing; are we ever going to see them again?
BOOM!, just ten feet away from me I Hear "QUICK BOYS, RETREAT, RETREAT!!"
A bomb has just been dropped.
All of us men scurry frantically through the foul weather, ducking our heads so we are not seen.
Climbing over rubble, and through barbed wire, there are bayonets blasting in the distance, I hear the faint sound of shouting Turks.
Further on, it begins to pour down, we become restrained and told we can not move on further.
The trenches have become half-filled rivers forcing us to pile sandbag on top of sandbag against the banks to stop the slushy mud from caving in.
As day becomes night, flying bullets shoot over our heads, so strong that they vibrate the roots sticking out of the muddy walls.
But we are not worried.
Some men even talk to the Turks from across the trench, one thing we all have in common:
We are just doing what we have to do for our country.
And as the sun sets over Gallipoli Bay, I hope for peace so that someday this war will be resolved.
Arms and the Boy
By Wilfred Owen
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with
hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
And thinly
drawn with famishing for flesh.
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
Which long to muzzle
in the hearts of lads.
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
Sharp
with the sharpness of grief and death.
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws
behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor
antlers through the thickness of his curls.
By Wilfred Owen
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with
hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
And thinly
drawn with famishing for flesh.
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
Which long to muzzle
in the hearts of lads.
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
Sharp
with the sharpness of grief and death.
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws
behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor
antlers through the thickness of his curls.