Wilfred Owen
Sit on the bed. I’m blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can’t shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
I tried to peg out soldierly,-no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals?-Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons?-Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That’s for your poetry book.)
A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We used to say we’d hate to live dead-old,-
Yet now…I’d willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I’d ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that’s what I learnt,-that, and making money.
Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I’ve got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
My servant’s lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I’m lugged out, he’ll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I’ve thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever.
I’d ask no nights off when the bustle’s over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who’s prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms’ tan?
I’d love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?
O Life, Life, let me breathe,-a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the lives rats lead-
Nosing along at night down some safe rut,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death.
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
‘I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone’
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
‘Pushing up daisies’ is their creed, you know.
To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D’you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if…Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me,-as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I’ll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.
Don’t take my soul’s poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here’s the thing’s best left at home with friends.
My soul’s a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.
Carry my crying spirit till it’s weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem reflects the brutal, painful reality of a soldier’s life after war. The speaker, blind and severely wounded, offers a raw and bitter account of his current existence. The tone is conversational and, at times, bitterly ironic, underscoring the futility the speaker feels about his sacrifice in the name of war. The soldier’s suffering is evident, not only in his physical pain—his “mutinied” arms and “fingers fidget[ing] like ten idle brats”—but also in the emotional toll that his injuries have inflicted on him. There is a sharp contrast between the heroism often associated with war and the personal suffering the speaker now endures.
The opening lines immediately set the stage for the soldier’s disillusionment. His body is broken, and his identity as a man who once fought is now reduced to a collection of medals and ribbons, which he dismisses as mere “discs to make eyes close” and “scarlet shreds.” These items, symbols of pride and honor, have lost all meaning to him. Instead of the glory he was promised, he faces the harsh reality of his new life—one where even basic movements are a struggle.
The speaker then shifts to a more philosophical perspective, reflecting on the futility of life after war. The once-exhilarating concept of a “short life and a merry one” seems absurd now that he faces the consequences of his decisions. He speaks cynically about the ideals of patriotism and war, suggesting that the lessons he’s learned are about “hitting, shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.” In this way, the speaker mocks the idealized versions of war and heroism, showing how they have only taught him suffering and survival, not the ideals he once might have cherished.
The poem then takes a surprising turn, as the speaker yearns for a simple life, one removed from the brutality of war. He imagines himself as a servant, a sweep, or even a “muckman,” living a humble, less painful existence. He envisions a life where he could blend into the background, unnoticed and unimportant, but free from the physical and emotional torment of war. This fantasy of escaping into a life of simplicity—one where he might find peace with the dirt and toil of everyday labor—shows just how far he’s fallen from his former self.
In the final stanzas, the speaker reflects on the fleeting nature of life and the inevitable return to nature. He contemplates becoming one with the earth, where the harshness of war could no longer touch him. The idea of “pushing up daisies” becomes not a somber metaphor but a strange comfort, as the soldier imagines that being a part of the natural world would be a more peaceful, less painful existence. The grim reality of war has rendered him disconnected from the human experience, and he now finds solace in the thought of becoming part of the earth, where he can “do without what blood remained these wounds.”
The poem is a stark, bitter critique of war and its consequences. Through the speaker’s voice, the reader feels the intense alienation and despair that comes with surviving the horrors of war. The soldier no longer seeks honor or glory; instead, he longs for release from his pain, whether that means becoming part of the earth or finding a quiet corner away from the world. In the end, the poem captures the emptiness left behind by war—the disconnect between the heroic ideals of battle and the brutal, often meaningless suffering that soldiers endure.