Wilfred Owen
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 blood-smear 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 thought of jewelled hilts
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?
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem paints a harrowing picture of the aftermath of war, focusing on a young soldier who has been irreversibly scarred both physically and emotionally. The soldier sits in a “wheeled chair,” unable to walk, his body reduced to a “ghastly suit of grey,” a visual metaphor for the suffering and loss of vitality. The mention of his missing legs and the description of his “sewn short at elbow” accentuate the depth of his physical disfigurement. The once-vibrant world he knew—represented by the “voices of boys” playing in the park—is now distant, as sleep “mothered them from him,” symbolizing his separation from normal life.
The contrast between the lively, colorful past and his present bleak existence is stark. The speaker recalls a time when the town “used to swing so gay” and “girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,” reflecting a world of youth, beauty, and possibility. Now, the soldier cannot partake in the pleasures of life, especially those linked to romance and physical closeness. His disfigurement turns all contact from others into a source of discomfort, with girls’ touches “like some queer disease.” This line poignantly conveys how his injuries have alienated him from the very things that once brought him joy.
The poet then shifts to the soldier’s backstory. The soldier had once been full of youthful ambition and naïveté. His decision to join the army, motivated by shallow reasons—”to please his Meg” or to look “a god in kilts”—reflects his immaturity and lack of understanding about the realities of war. He didn’t anticipate the gruesome consequences of his actions. The line “He wonders why” shows a deep regret, an acknowledgment of how little he understood the true costs of his choice.
The poem’s narrative continues to unfold the soldier’s transformation, with his youthful vigor replaced by the physical toll of war. His former vitality, which the “artist” once admired, has now drained away, symbolized by the “purple spurted from his thigh.” The soldier’s loss of his former self is so severe that even his memories of his body—his youth and strength—feel like they belong to another life. His body is no longer his own, and his sense of self has been swallowed by the war.
As the poem moves into the later stages of the soldier’s life, we see his disillusionment with war. He reflects on his naivety and the lack of fear he once felt—”Germans he scarcely thought of.” He was driven more by external, superficial motivations, like the romanticized image of soldiering or the desire for recognition, than by any understanding of the true horrors he would face. This stark contrast between his initial perception of war and his current reality makes the loss even more poignant.
In the final stanzas, the soldier finds himself in a state of physical and emotional isolation, in “institutes” where the focus is on managing his wounds and providing him with pity. The mention of “the women’s eyes” passing from him to “the strong men that were whole” highlights his growing sense of being invisible, ignored, or even rejected by society. The final question, “Why don’t they come?” is a cry for the comfort and care he now desperately needs but can no longer expect.
This poem is a powerful exploration of the dehumanizing effects of war. It contrasts the soldier’s youthful, naive idealism with the harsh, grim reality he faces after returning from the battlefield. The soldier’s journey from excitement and youthful bravado to disillusionment and despair is rendered with a chilling poignancy, making this poem an unflinching meditation on the personal cost of war.