Wilfred Owen

-Born in 1893 in Shropshire, England

-Composed almost all of his poems between August 1917 and September 1918

-Only 5 of his poems were published in his lifetime, so almost all of his poems were published posthumously

-Oldest of 4

-Studied under Reverend Herbert Wigan as an unpaid lay assistant when trying to figure out what he wanted to do

-While studying in the church, he read and developed his skill of writing poetry

-Returned home in 1913 with a respiratory infection

-Enlisted in the military in October of 1915

-Killed in action in November 1918 in France, a week before the Armistice

-"Dulce et Decorum Est" was published posthumously in 1920

"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,

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.

Analysis

I chose to include this poem because I was really surprised by the difference in perspective from what war poems normally hint at. From what I have seen, most people think it a highly noble cause to go to war for your country, and dying to defend your country to be an honor. Right from the get go, Owen establishes that war is not a pretty or fun thing, not something to desire to get into. Using words such as “beggars”, “hags”, “sludge”, and phrases such as “limped on, blood-shod”, and ”Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots” demonstrate his thoughts on war time. Rather than describing the soldiers as these pristine, brave men marching to defend their nation, he describes them as they genuinely appear: beggars and hags, tired and injured but still trudging along. He adds to this more subtly in the next stanza, using diction such as “fumbling”, “clumsy”, “stumbling”, and “flound’ring” to further the mental image of these exhausted, overworked men merely trying to survive in the worst possible conditions. From here he adds another layer of specificity, using an event he was forced to witness to verify both the pure exhaustion they all were subject to as well as the raw horrors experienced in the war. But because he did not mention a name, he leaves it open to interpretation about whether or not this was an instance he saw more than once. This really emphasizes the fact that soldiers see things that no one should ever have to deal with, proving the harshness of war and how terrible some of the events that happen on a daily basis on the warfront truly are. By moving straight from this and comparing the experience with “vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues” to telling children about the glory of war, Owen appears more to be ranting. It seems to me that he says this all in one breath and then inhales after “My friend” and again after “The old lie”. By breathing in these areas, it elongates what he is saying about the actual war experiences and puts it together in one monologue then ties that back with how adults propagandize children about war as if it is one thought and one sentence that is proof of why they should not tell future generations what they do. Following this, he ends the poem with clear disdain and bitterness, disproving the phrase that nationalists tend to spread: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” But is it?

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