Wilfred Owen

This image is available here.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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,

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;

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,

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

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Discover more from War Poetry

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading