Wilfred Owen
(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)
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 brick!
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 night 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 existences rats lead—
Nosing along at night down some safe vat,
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 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 is a harrowing monologue of a soldier caught in the cruel aftermath of war, a voice full of pain, bitterness, and grim humor. It refuses sentimentality or heroism, replacing them with a stark, unfiltered expression of despair and disillusionment. The soldier speaks as if he’s already dead in all but body, his words a mix of lament, resignation, and cutting observation.
The opening lines set the tone with their jarring intimacy and grotesque humor: “Both arms have mutinied against me—brutes. / My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.” His physical decay is described with a bluntness that borders on absurdity, yet it underscores the dehumanization and indignity of his condition. The body, once a source of strength and pride, is now an enemy.
The poem is saturated with a sense of futility. The medals and ribbons that once symbolized glory now feel like cheap tokens, “Discs to make eyes close,” and “scarlet shreds” ripped from his back. Even his philosophy on life, once carefree and youthful—”A short life and a merry one”—has turned sour as he longs for the simple continuation of existence, even in the most humble forms. He envies rats, germs, even flowers, anything that gets to live and die naturally rather than being crushed under the weight of war.
There’s a dark humor that runs through the poem, bitter but sharp. He mocks lofty ideas of death and immortality, skewering Shelley’s romantic vision of becoming “one with nature.” For the soldier, the reality is far grittier—”Pushing up daisies” is no poetic transformation but a grim acceptance of his body’s future role as fertilizer.
The poem’s imagery is vivid and visceral, from the “mummy-case” of his broken body to the fantasy of rats and germs living more dignified lives than soldiers. The rain, the sun, and the earth—all symbols of life and renewal—are twisted into reminders of what he’s lost and will never regain. Even the guns, crashing around him, have no power over the peace he imagines in death.
In the closing lines, the soldier’s soul becomes a tangible, pitiable thing, a “little grief” clinging desperately to life but ultimately resigned to its fate. His request for the “crying spirit” to be carried until it can learn to live without blood is both heartbreaking and defiant. He rejects any attempt to romanticize or appropriate his suffering, insisting on the raw truth of his experience.
This poem is brutal and unrelenting, peeling away the lies and illusions of war to reveal the human cost beneath. It’s not a plea for pity but a fierce, unflinching acknowledgment of the depths to which war drags its victims, physically and spiritually. It forces us to confront the gulf between the ideals of sacrifice and the grim reality of what those sacrifices entail.