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Wilfred Owen was born on March 18, 1893, in Oswestry, Shropshire, England. He is best known as one of the most important poets of the First World War, and his work has come to symbolize the horrors of war. Owen’s poetry, full of stark and powerful imagery, vividly portrays the trauma, futility, and destruction caused by the war, making him a key figure in war literature.
Owen’s early life was marked by a deep love for literature and poetry, which he pursued from a young age. He attended several schools and later studied at the University of London, where he developed a passion for writing. After initially attempting to follow in his father’s footsteps and take up a career in civil engineering, Owen decided to focus on writing. His early works show influences of Romantic poets, but it was during his time in the military that his poetry took on its powerful, anti-war themes.
In 1915, Owen enlisted in the British Army, following the outbreak of World War I. His decision was shaped by a sense of duty and patriotism, but also by the influence of the war’s deep impact on the culture of his time. Owen was sent to France in 1917, where he served in the trenches and was severely wounded by a shell blast. The experience of war and the brutal conditions he faced in the front lines had a profound effect on Owen’s writing. His works from this period, such as Dulce et Decorum Est and Anthem for Doomed Youth, directly address the violence, suffering, and disillusionment that soldiers endured.
Owen’s military service and his personal experiences in the trenches were crucial to his development as a poet. After being wounded, he spent time recovering in a hospital, where he met fellow poet Siegfried Sassoon. Sassoon, who had also experienced the horrors of war, became a significant influence on Owen’s work, encouraging him to write more explicitly about his experiences and the realities of war. Sassoon’s friendship and mentorship were key in helping Owen develop his distinctive style, which combined vivid imagery and intense emotional depth.
Despite being critically acclaimed by his peers, Owen’s legacy was cut short when he was killed in action on November 4, 1918, just a week before the war ended. He was 25 years old. His death cemented his place as one of the most poignant voices of the First World War, and his work remains central to the canon of war poetry.
Owen’s poetry is characterized by its powerful condemnation of the war and its exploration of the psychological and emotional toll it took on soldiers. His work emphasizes the harsh realities of warfare, which stood in stark contrast to the idealized notions of honor and heroism often portrayed by the government and the media. His most famous poem, Dulce et Decorum Est, uses shocking imagery and irony to expose the lie that it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. Owen’s poems, with their unflinching portrayal of death, suffering, and loss, continue to be a testament to the brutal realities of war.
Though Owen was relatively unknown during his lifetime, his poetry gained widespread recognition after his death. His works have since been included in anthologies of the finest British poetry, and he is now regarded as one of the most important voices of the First World War. His poetry has inspired countless readers and continues to be relevant as a powerful reminder of the human cost of conflict.
Wilfred Owen’s life and legacy are bound up with the tragic history of the First World War. His poetry endures as a testament to the courage and suffering of soldiers, as well as a sharp critique of the glorification of war. His ability to capture the horrors of war in verse, as well as his emotional depth and compassion, ensure that his voice remains one of the most important in the history of English poetry.
You may learn more at the Poetry Foundation and Wikipedia.
A Terre
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.
Parable of the Old Men and the Young
Wilfred Owen
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
A Palinode
Wilfred Owen
Some little while ago, I had a mood
When what we know as ‘Nature’ seemed to me
So sympathetic, ample, sweet, and good
Preface
Wilfred Owen
This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak
of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,
dominion or power,
Six O’clock In Princes Street
Wilfred Owen
In twos and threes, they have not far to roam,
Crowds that thread eastward, gay of eyes;
Those seek no further than their quiet home,
My Shy Hand
Wilfred Owen
My shy hand shades a hermitage apart, –
O large enough for thee, and thy brief hours.
Life there is sweeter held than in God’s heart,
The Dead Beat
Wilfred Owen
He dropped, – more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
The Letter
Wilfred Owen
With B.E.F. Jun 10. Dear Wife,
(Oh blast this pencil. ‘Ere, Bill, lend’s a knife.)
I’m in the pink at present, dear.
Red Lips Are Not So Red
Wilfred Owen
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Training
Wilfred Owen
Not this week nor this month dare I lie down
In languour under lime trees or smooth smile.
Love must not kiss my face pale that is brown.
Elegy In April And September
Wilfred Owen
Hush, thrush! Hush, missen-thrush, I listen…
I heard the flush of footsteps through the loose leaves,
And a low whistle by the water’s brim.
As Bronze May Be Much Beautified (Unfinished)
Wilfred Owen
As bronze may be much beautified
By lying in the dark damp soil,
So men who fade in dust of warfare fade
The Unreturning
Wilfred Owen
Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled
Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.
Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled
The Calls
Wilfred Owen
A dismal fog-hoarse siren howls at dawn.
I watch the man it calls for, pushed and drawn
Backwards and forwards, helpless as a pawn.
Schoolmistress
Wilfred Owen
Schoolmistress
Having, with bold Horatius, stamped her feet
And waved a final swashing arabesque
Cramped In That Funnelled Hole
Wilfred Owen
Cramped in that funnelled hole, they watched the dawn
Open a jagged rim around; a yawn
Of death’s jaws, which had all but swallowed them
On My Songs
Wilfred Owen
Though unseen Poets, many and many a time,
Have answered me as if they knew my woe,
And it might seem have fashioned so their rime
The Chances
Wilfred Owen
I mind as ‘ow the night afore that show
Us five got talking, — we was in the know,
“Over the top to-morrer; boys, we’re for it,
Song Of Songs
Wilfred Owen
Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life.
Wild With All Regrets
Wilfred Owen
To Siegfried Sassoon
Asleep
Wilfred Owen
Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
Conscious
Wilfred Owen
His fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow mayflowers by his head.
The Kind Ghosts
Wilfred Owen
She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost looms
Out of the stillness of her palace wall,
Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms.
But I Was Looking At The Permanent Stars
Wilfred Owen
Bugles sang, saddening the evening air,
And bugles answered, sorrowful to hear.
I Saw His Round Mouth’s Crimson
Wilfred Owen
[I saw his round mouth’s crimson deepen as it fell],
Like a Sun, in his last deep hour;
Watched the magnificent recession of farewell,
Smile, Smile, Smile
Wilfred Owen
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Yesterday’s Mail; the casualties (typed small)
And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul.
The Show
Wilfred Owen
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
As unremembering how I rose or why,
And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,
The Young Soldier
Wilfred Owen
It is not death
Without hereafter
To one in dearth
Inspection
Wilfred Owen
You! What d’you mean by this?’ I rapped.
‘You dare come on parade like this?’
‘Please, sir, it’s-‘ ”Old yer mouth,’ the sergeant snapped.
Soldier’s Dream
Wilfred Owen
I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears;
And caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts;
And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts;
An Imperial Elegy
Wilfred Owen
Not one corner of a foreign field
But a span as wide as Europe;
An appearance of a titan’s grave,
The End
Wilfred Owen
After the blast of lightning from the east,
The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,
After the drums of time have rolled and ceased
Happiness
Wilfred Owen
Ever again to breathe pure happiness,
So happy that we gave away our toy?
We smiled at nothings, needing no caress?
Hospital Barge At Cerisy
Wilfred Owen
Budging the sluggard ripples of the Somme,
A barge round old Cérisy slowly slewed.
Softly her engines down the current screwed,
From My Diary, July 1914
Wilfred Owen
Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
Sonnet To My Friend – With An Identity Disc
Wilfred Owen
If ever I had dreamed of my dead name
High in the heart of London, unsurpassed
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,
The Last Laugh
Wilfred Owen
Oh! Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!
Le Christianisme
Wilfred Owen
ISo the church Christ was hit and buried
Under its rubbish and its rubble.
In cellars, packed-up saints long serried,
At A Calvary Near The Ancre
Wilfred Owen
One ever hangs where shelled roads part.
In this war He too lost a limb,
But His disciples hide apart;
Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action
Wilfred Owen
Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,
Great Gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse;
Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse
A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers)
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.
1914
Wilfred Owen
War broke: and now the Winter of the world
With perishing great darkness closes in.
The foul tornado, centred at Berlin,
Mental Cases
Wilfred Owen
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish,
Greater Love
Wilfred Owen
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
The Sentry
Wilfred Owen
We’d found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Disabled
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
S I W
Wilfred Owen
I will to the King,
And offer him consolation in his trouble,
For that man there has set his teeth to die,
The Next War_
Wilfred Owen
War’s a joke for me and you,
While we know such dreams are true.
Siegfried Sassoon
Apologia Pro Poemate Meo
Wilfred Owen
I, too, saw God through mud—
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young
Wilfred Owen
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Exposure
Wilfred Owen
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced cast winds that knive us…
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent…
Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient…
Spring Offensive
Wilfred Owen
Halted against the shade of a last hill
They fed, and eased of pack-loads, were at ease;
And leaning on the nearest chest or knees
The Send-Off
Wilfred Owen
Down the close darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Futility
Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
The Next War
Robert Graves
You young friskies who today
Jump and fight in Father’s hay
With bows and arrows and wooden spears,
Strange Meeting
Wilfred Owen
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Insensibility
Wilfred Owen
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Anthem of the Doomed Youth
Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Arms and the boy
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;
Dulce et Decorum est
Wilfred Owen
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