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Poems: Penguin Pocket Poetry
A collectible new Penguin Classics series: stunning, clothbound editions of ten favourite poets, which present each poet's most famous book of verse as it was originally published. Designed by the acclaimed Coralie Bickford-Smith and beautifully set, these slim, A format volumes are the ultimate gift editions for poetry lovers.
Poems is Wilfred Owen's only volume of poetry, first published posthumously in 1920 and edited by his friend and mentor, Siegfried Sassoon. Owen is regarded as one of the best poets of World War I and composed nearly all of his poems in just over a year, between August 1917 and September 1918. Owen was virtually unknown at the time of his death, yet his poetic account of a soldier's experience of war has shaped our impression of the horrors of the Western Front. This collection includes the well-known 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' and 'Dulce et Decorum Est'.
83 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1918
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About the author
Wilfred Owen
175 books234 followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the goodreads data base.
Wilfred Owen was a defining voice of British poetry during the First World War, renowned for his stark portrayals of trench warfare and gas attacks. Deeply influenced by Siegfried Sassoon, whom he met while recovering from shell shock, Owen’s work departed from the patriotic war verse of the time, instead conveying the brutal reality of combat and the suffering of soldiers. Among his best-known poems are Dulce et Decorum est, Anthem for Doomed Youth, and Strange Meeting—many of which were published only after his death.
Born in 1893 in Shropshire, Owen developed an early passion for poetry and religion, both of which would shape his artistic and moral worldview. He worked as a teacher and spent time in France before enlisting in the British Army in 1915. After a traumatic experience at the front, he was treated for shell shock at Craiglockhart War Hospital, where Sassoon’s mentorship helped refine his poetic voice.
Owen returned to active service in 1918, determined to bear witness to the horrors of war. He was killed in action just one week before the Armistice. Though only a few of his poems were published during his lifetime, his posthumous collections cemented his legacy as one of the greatest war poets in English literature. His work continues to be studied for its powerful combination of romantic lyricism and brutal realism, as well as its complex engagement with themes of faith, duty, and identity.
Wilfred Owen was a defining voice of British poetry during the First World War, renowned for his stark portrayals of trench warfare and gas attacks. Deeply influenced by Siegfried Sassoon, whom he met while recovering from shell shock, Owen’s work departed from the patriotic war verse of the time, instead conveying the brutal reality of combat and the suffering of soldiers. Among his best-known poems are Dulce et Decorum est, Anthem for Doomed Youth, and Strange Meeting—many of which were published only after his death.
Born in 1893 in Shropshire, Owen developed an early passion for poetry and religion, both of which would shape his artistic and moral worldview. He worked as a teacher and spent time in France before enlisting in the British Army in 1915. After a traumatic experience at the front, he was treated for shell shock at Craiglockhart War Hospital, where Sassoon’s mentorship helped refine his poetic voice.
Owen returned to active service in 1918, determined to bear witness to the horrors of war. He was killed in action just one week before the Armistice. Though only a few of his poems were published during his lifetime, his posthumous collections cemented his legacy as one of the greatest war poets in English literature. His work continues to be studied for its powerful combination of romantic lyricism and brutal realism, as well as its complex engagement with themes of faith, duty, and identity.
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November 4, 2018
Reposted November 4th, 2018 - in memory of November 4th, 1918, the poet's last battle!
I have been circling around World War I for a while now, reading novels that were published around 1915, such as The Voyage Out or Of Human Bondage, and poetry that referred back to that breaking point in history, for example Duffy's Last Post.
As "Dulce Et Decorum Est" is one of my all time favourite poems (if you can say that about something as sad and scary as those lines), I have been meaning to dig deeper into Owen's reflections for a long time.
I find it hard to describe my feelings towards this collection, as there are so many strands that join together to weave the pattern of this reading experience. There is the brilliant young poet, writing beautiful verse, and the witness of the literal break down of a whole value system, and the truthful chronicler of historical events, and the sad prophet, and the voice of millions of soldiers fighting a war that did not really regard them.
There is modernity in art breaking through the lines of the trenches, beauty for beauty's sake dying with the idealism that could not be kept in the face of bitter reality...
I keep thinking of Rudyard Kipling's world, an intact ethical system with the honour of the British Empire as a guiding star, and how this world was brutally destroyed when he pressured the system to let his myopic son Jack enrol in the war, only to lose him forever shortly afterwards. I wonder if it was worse for Kipling not to know exactly what happened, so that he had to keep asking, full of sorrow, after 1915, about news of his boy Jack:
“Have you news of my boy Jack? ”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide."
Would it have been easier for the devastated father if he had received all the harsh details Owen describes in his poems? The hard, sad, tormenting details of trench warfare and its effects, speaking of the countless young men lost...
The ones who die, thinking:
"I'd love to be a sweep now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?"
The ones who are mutilated forever, at age nineteen:
"He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow..."
The ones who have lost their sanity in the face of terror:
"But poor Jim, 'e's livin' an' e's not;
E' reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e 'ad;
E's wounded, killed an' pris'ner, all the lot,
The bloody lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad."
The ones who survived to be haunted forever by their memories.
That of course was something Wilfred Owen could not write about, himself falling during the last week of the war in November 1918. But we have plenty of testimony of the traumatised survivors, as Doris Lessing recalls in her autobiography for example, describing her parents' fate. Remarque wrote down his nightmare in his All Quiet on the Western Front, describing an experience where the death, mutilation and trauma of young men was so common that newspapers could report "Nothing New On The Western Front" on the day the hero of the novel dies.
I could read, and reread Wilfred Owen over and over. First of all, he gives the war a voice that is honest and direct, without any of those "old lies" of decorous and honorable patriotic fights and deaths. He shows the reality of that time, but he also creates art. Where others write reports, he sings a desperate song of pity for a generation taught to die for a nation that does not care for them at all. When they discover that, it is too late.
He tells the story of those soldiers, and thus makes history come alive again, to remind and warn that there is no glory in killing.
But somehow, he also manages to give me hope. For he wrote beautiful, thoughtful, and wise poetry under horrendous pressure, thus showing the human ability to create a space for kindness and pity in any situation. Who writes like Owen has not given up on humanity as a whole. Who wants to reach out and teach the coming generations to be careful with their lives can not be entirely lost.
"I am the enemy you killed, my friend", - that line goes deep under my skin!
So I close his poetry collection deeply thankful that his poetry was saved for me to read, forever curious what he would have done with his incredible talent, had he lived beyond 25!
I have been circling around World War I for a while now, reading novels that were published around 1915, such as The Voyage Out or Of Human Bondage, and poetry that referred back to that breaking point in history, for example Duffy's Last Post.
As "Dulce Et Decorum Est" is one of my all time favourite poems (if you can say that about something as sad and scary as those lines), I have been meaning to dig deeper into Owen's reflections for a long time.
I find it hard to describe my feelings towards this collection, as there are so many strands that join together to weave the pattern of this reading experience. There is the brilliant young poet, writing beautiful verse, and the witness of the literal break down of a whole value system, and the truthful chronicler of historical events, and the sad prophet, and the voice of millions of soldiers fighting a war that did not really regard them.
There is modernity in art breaking through the lines of the trenches, beauty for beauty's sake dying with the idealism that could not be kept in the face of bitter reality...
I keep thinking of Rudyard Kipling's world, an intact ethical system with the honour of the British Empire as a guiding star, and how this world was brutally destroyed when he pressured the system to let his myopic son Jack enrol in the war, only to lose him forever shortly afterwards. I wonder if it was worse for Kipling not to know exactly what happened, so that he had to keep asking, full of sorrow, after 1915, about news of his boy Jack:
“Have you news of my boy Jack? ”
Not this tide.
“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide."
Would it have been easier for the devastated father if he had received all the harsh details Owen describes in his poems? The hard, sad, tormenting details of trench warfare and its effects, speaking of the countless young men lost...
The ones who die, thinking:
"I'd love to be a sweep now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?"
The ones who are mutilated forever, at age nineteen:
"He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow..."
The ones who have lost their sanity in the face of terror:
"But poor Jim, 'e's livin' an' e's not;
E' reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e 'ad;
E's wounded, killed an' pris'ner, all the lot,
The bloody lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad."
The ones who survived to be haunted forever by their memories.
That of course was something Wilfred Owen could not write about, himself falling during the last week of the war in November 1918. But we have plenty of testimony of the traumatised survivors, as Doris Lessing recalls in her autobiography for example, describing her parents' fate. Remarque wrote down his nightmare in his All Quiet on the Western Front, describing an experience where the death, mutilation and trauma of young men was so common that newspapers could report "Nothing New On The Western Front" on the day the hero of the novel dies.
I could read, and reread Wilfred Owen over and over. First of all, he gives the war a voice that is honest and direct, without any of those "old lies" of decorous and honorable patriotic fights and deaths. He shows the reality of that time, but he also creates art. Where others write reports, he sings a desperate song of pity for a generation taught to die for a nation that does not care for them at all. When they discover that, it is too late.
He tells the story of those soldiers, and thus makes history come alive again, to remind and warn that there is no glory in killing.
But somehow, he also manages to give me hope. For he wrote beautiful, thoughtful, and wise poetry under horrendous pressure, thus showing the human ability to create a space for kindness and pity in any situation. Who writes like Owen has not given up on humanity as a whole. Who wants to reach out and teach the coming generations to be careful with their lives can not be entirely lost.
"I am the enemy you killed, my friend", - that line goes deep under my skin!
So I close his poetry collection deeply thankful that his poetry was saved for me to read, forever curious what he would have done with his incredible talent, had he lived beyond 25!
April 22, 2019
I've started reading WW1 poetry every year at this time, last year it was Rupert Brooke
this year I have sampled one of the most famous anti-war poets of them all, Wilfred Owen.
Read his Wikipedia page - his experiences were horrifying and he was killed in action a week before the Armistice. I'm going to be presumptuous and assume that this talented, sensitive young man would literally have been a shellshocked wreck if he survived. How could he not be?
From his most famous poem Dulce et Decorum Est
How could the mind that envisaged the above survive unscathed.
Our local monument is now lit at night and I went to the first night on the 24th (the eve of ANZAC Day) Interesting that was was originally planned was diluted because of public apathy and the expense - and that it has taken close on 100 years to be lit at night.
Lest we forget.
this year I have sampled one of the most famous anti-war poets of them all, Wilfred Owen.
Read his Wikipedia page - his experiences were horrifying and he was killed in action a week before the Armistice. I'm going to be presumptuous and assume that this talented, sensitive young man would literally have been a shellshocked wreck if he survived. How could he not be?
From his most famous poem Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind...
How could the mind that envisaged the above survive unscathed.
Our local monument is now lit at night and I went to the first night on the 24th (the eve of ANZAC Day) Interesting that was was originally planned was diluted because of public apathy and the expense - and that it has taken close on 100 years to be lit at night.
Lest we forget.
July 1, 2020
WW1 poet. Killed in action a week before the end, at 25.
Q:
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
...
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
...
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
...
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.
(c)
Q:
I, too, saw God through mud, –
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
...
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. (c)
Q:
With news of all the nations in your hand,
And all their sorrows in your face. (c)
Q:
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. (c)
Q:
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
...
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
...
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
...
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.
(c)
Q:
I, too, saw God through mud, –
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
...
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. (c)
Q:
With news of all the nations in your hand,
And all their sorrows in your face. (c)
Q:
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. (c)
August 16, 2023
A escrever em tempo real, Wilfred Owen foi um poeta inglês que combateu na Primeira Guerra Mundial e aí morreu uma semana antes do armistício, com apenas 25 anos.
O RAPAZ E AS ARMAS
Deixem esse rapaz sentir o gume da baioneta
E o frio do aço, afiado na sede do sangue;
Azul, todo malícia, como fulgor de louco;
Comum fio aguçado, sôfrego de carne.
Deixem-no afagar as balas cegas, embotadas,
Ansiosas por fazer ninho em jovens corações;
Podem dar-lhes cartuchos cortantes com dentes de zinco
- São farpas agudas de dor e de morte.
Parece trincar maçãs entre sorrisos.
Nos dedos complacentes não tem garras ocultas;
Deus não lhe fará nascer cascos nos pés
Nem chifres de demónio na farta cabeleira.
Não se coibindo de descrever gráfica mas esplendidamente a guerra das trincheiras, com lama, sangue, explosões, gás-mostarda (“Dulce et Decorum Est”) e constantes encontros com a Morte (“A Próxima Guerra”), com os sabidos efeitos psicológicos, como o stress pós-traumático de que Owen também sofreu (“Esgotamento”), e com os efeitos físicos, na forma de amputados de regresso à pátria (“Invalidez”), esta edição bilingue de “Elegias” compõe-se de pequenos retratos crus mas compassivos, porque “a Poesia está na compaixão”.
APOLOGIA PRO POEMATE MEO
I, too, saw God through mud, -
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
Merry it was to laugh there –
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder
(…)
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
(…)
O RAPAZ E AS ARMAS
Deixem esse rapaz sentir o gume da baioneta
E o frio do aço, afiado na sede do sangue;
Azul, todo malícia, como fulgor de louco;
Comum fio aguçado, sôfrego de carne.
Deixem-no afagar as balas cegas, embotadas,
Ansiosas por fazer ninho em jovens corações;
Podem dar-lhes cartuchos cortantes com dentes de zinco
- São farpas agudas de dor e de morte.
Parece trincar maçãs entre sorrisos.
Nos dedos complacentes não tem garras ocultas;
Deus não lhe fará nascer cascos nos pés
Nem chifres de demónio na farta cabeleira.
Não se coibindo de descrever gráfica mas esplendidamente a guerra das trincheiras, com lama, sangue, explosões, gás-mostarda (“Dulce et Decorum Est”) e constantes encontros com a Morte (“A Próxima Guerra”), com os sabidos efeitos psicológicos, como o stress pós-traumático de que Owen também sofreu (“Esgotamento”), e com os efeitos físicos, na forma de amputados de regresso à pátria (“Invalidez”), esta edição bilingue de “Elegias” compõe-se de pequenos retratos crus mas compassivos, porque “a Poesia está na compaixão”.
APOLOGIA PRO POEMATE MEO
I, too, saw God through mud, -
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
Merry it was to laugh there –
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder
(…)
I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
(…)
March 3, 2019
O poeta inglês Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) combateu na Grande Guerra, num regimento de infantaria, durante o primeiro semestre de 1917. O stress da guerra levou-o ao colapso e foi internado num hospital psiquiátrico. Em Setembro, do ano seguinte, regressou à linha da frente onde morreu em combate a 4 de Novembro de 1918, uma semana antes do armistício.
"Não é de heróis que este livro trata. A poesia inglesa ainda não é digna de falar deles.
Também não trata de feitos ou territórios, da glória ou da honra, nem de qualquer potestades, tronos, dominações ou poderes que não sejam a Guerra.
Acima de tudo, não é com a Poesia que estou preocupado.
A Guerra é o meu tema e a compaixão da Guerra. A Poesia está na compaixão."
— Wilfred Owen
"DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Velhos mendigos vergados por mochilas,
Maldita tosse no lamaçal, trôpego passo,
Fomos virando costas a clarões de assombro,
Rumo ao repouso distante sofremos o caminho.
Sonâmbula marcha de soldados. Tantos sem botas,
Calçados de sangue manquejavam. Cegos e coxos todos
Ébrios de fadiga, surdos aos sinistros gritos
De quem caía exausto e para trás ficava.
Gás! GÁS! Rápido, rapazes! Em êxtase sem jeito
Enfiam por um triz seus toscos capacetes;
Mas ainda havia alguém aos tropeços e gritos
A patinhar como quem anda por betume ou fogo...
Na luz densa e verde por vidro embaciado
Vi-o sufocar obscuro, em verde mar submerso.
Diante de meus olhos impotentes, quando sonho,
Náufrago sufocado mergulha em mim e desfalece.
Se viesses também tu em sonhos sufocantes
Atrás deste vagão onde o lançámos
E visses que no rosto o olhar esgazeava,
Face pendente como demónio compungido;
Se em cada solavanco tu ouvisses o sangue
A brotar dos pulmões em golfadas de espuma,
Obsceno cancro amargo que nem massa
Da língua de inocentes ulcerada sem remédio,
Com tanta paixão, amigo, não dirias
A crianças sedentas de suprema glória
A tal mentira antiga: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."
(Otto Dix, War)
"Não é de heróis que este livro trata. A poesia inglesa ainda não é digna de falar deles.
Também não trata de feitos ou territórios, da glória ou da honra, nem de qualquer potestades, tronos, dominações ou poderes que não sejam a Guerra.
Acima de tudo, não é com a Poesia que estou preocupado.
A Guerra é o meu tema e a compaixão da Guerra. A Poesia está na compaixão."
— Wilfred Owen
"DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Velhos mendigos vergados por mochilas,
Maldita tosse no lamaçal, trôpego passo,
Fomos virando costas a clarões de assombro,
Rumo ao repouso distante sofremos o caminho.
Sonâmbula marcha de soldados. Tantos sem botas,
Calçados de sangue manquejavam. Cegos e coxos todos
Ébrios de fadiga, surdos aos sinistros gritos
De quem caía exausto e para trás ficava.
Gás! GÁS! Rápido, rapazes! Em êxtase sem jeito
Enfiam por um triz seus toscos capacetes;
Mas ainda havia alguém aos tropeços e gritos
A patinhar como quem anda por betume ou fogo...
Na luz densa e verde por vidro embaciado
Vi-o sufocar obscuro, em verde mar submerso.
Diante de meus olhos impotentes, quando sonho,
Náufrago sufocado mergulha em mim e desfalece.
Se viesses também tu em sonhos sufocantes
Atrás deste vagão onde o lançámos
E visses que no rosto o olhar esgazeava,
Face pendente como demónio compungido;
Se em cada solavanco tu ouvisses o sangue
A brotar dos pulmões em golfadas de espuma,
Obsceno cancro amargo que nem massa
Da língua de inocentes ulcerada sem remédio,
Com tanta paixão, amigo, não dirias
A crianças sedentas de suprema glória
A tal mentira antiga: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori."
(Otto Dix, War)
September 28, 2023
Incredible writing, painfully vivid on its depiction of War. The two poems I have linked below are the first I encountered, and have returned to many times since.
There are several biographies about Wilfred Owen that I will read eventually, but I wanted to start with his own words.
"Anthem For Doomed Youth" read by Sean Bean:
https://youtu.be/GRj4DR5JTdY?si=IWKev...
"Dulce et Decorum est" read by Christopher Eccleston
https://youtu.be/qB4cdRgIcB8?si=enLdr...
There are several biographies about Wilfred Owen that I will read eventually, but I wanted to start with his own words.
"Anthem For Doomed Youth" read by Sean Bean:
https://youtu.be/GRj4DR5JTdY?si=IWKev...
"Dulce et Decorum est" read by Christopher Eccleston
https://youtu.be/qB4cdRgIcB8?si=enLdr...
May 26, 2018
His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right.
(Excerpt from Conscious.)
Wilfred Owen wrote about World War I the way he experienced it—tough, tearing, bloody, and strewn with broken bodies and broken men—the way most men probably experienced it, alive and dead. His poems convey the horror of human suffering, rather than the glory of a soldier's death. The famous line from his own Preface is
Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.
The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.
His images are particular, visceral, insightful. They're a reminder of the cruelty man perpetrates on man, but they're also a triumph of the poetic spirit. Owen was killed in action one week before the Armistice of 11 November 1918 was signed.
(I read his poetry in conjunction with Rebecca West's Return of the Soldier, which paints a completely different picture of the War, from the other side of the channel, in England, where an injured soldier returns.)
September 23, 2016
His poems are beautiful okay.
May 27, 2019
"surely we have perished / sleeping, and walk hell"
October 29, 2018
Beautiful and poignant. Ordered as an afterthought when I bought a poppy. Lovely book.
Lest we forget.
"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 And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori"
Lest we forget.
"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 And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori"
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 31, 2025
So, I’d like to preface this by saying I am a complete amateur when it comes to reading poetry. It just doesn’t come naturally to me, and aside from being able to recite Blake’s Tyger, Tyger like an automaton, this particular art continues to elude me. However, I am trying to remedy that, even though my new poetic muscles are, thus far, fairly meagre.
After reading Paul Fussell’s absolutely incredible The Great War and Modern Memory (review pending) I thought I’d finally return to one of the many poets forced upon me as a youth. Dulce et Decorum Est, Exposure and Anthem for a Doomed Youth are now part and parcel of the English persona. Nowhere else has the scepticism and world-weariness of war, its futility and bloodshed, been so pithily pronounced, and, seeing as this particular war has taken root in the English mind perhaps with greater strength than other nation, these poems continue to lacerate us — they show us where eagles fear to tread, where the progress of history and societies go to die. We have inherited these thoughts and feelings from him.
But what does he write of? Owen’s poetry contends with the Janus-face of Nature, the warmth of the Sun’s rays against the bitterness of the snow, the thick porridge like mud of Passchendaele, the ominous way in which Nature often looks at us with complete and utter indifference. He also speaks of the warmth of lips, the almost-romantic oozing of blood, the gnashing teeth of the already-spectral. And yet, one of the main antagonisms (as clearly shown by Owen’s Preface) is that between the complacent population at home and those condemned to die at the Western Front, how there now exists a yawning chasm between them, a complete gulf of knowledge, which makes them almost two entirely different species, barely capable of communication. Us at home, completely removed from the ineffable experience of war, in our complacency and vainglory, were all too happy to send our children to die an ignominious and ghastly death for an all too vapid, purely imperial cause. We are, in the final examination, only worthy of participation in the “eternal reciprocation of tears” — we cannot share what was to be their ephemeral merriment.
I’ve compiled several readings of these poems into a single MP3 and have been prowling my local forests in a dour stupor whilst listening to them. Between that and blasting Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring (with Augurs of Spring blowing my tits off each and every time I hear it) I’ve been one hell of a saturnine figure — goddamn, this shit is miserable, but truly excellent (for the most part). I’ll leave you this poem, one I had never read before, which I thought was pretty bloody good.
Mental Cases
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
—Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness
After reading Paul Fussell’s absolutely incredible The Great War and Modern Memory (review pending) I thought I’d finally return to one of the many poets forced upon me as a youth. Dulce et Decorum Est, Exposure and Anthem for a Doomed Youth are now part and parcel of the English persona. Nowhere else has the scepticism and world-weariness of war, its futility and bloodshed, been so pithily pronounced, and, seeing as this particular war has taken root in the English mind perhaps with greater strength than other nation, these poems continue to lacerate us — they show us where eagles fear to tread, where the progress of history and societies go to die. We have inherited these thoughts and feelings from him.
But what does he write of? Owen’s poetry contends with the Janus-face of Nature, the warmth of the Sun’s rays against the bitterness of the snow, the thick porridge like mud of Passchendaele, the ominous way in which Nature often looks at us with complete and utter indifference. He also speaks of the warmth of lips, the almost-romantic oozing of blood, the gnashing teeth of the already-spectral. And yet, one of the main antagonisms (as clearly shown by Owen’s Preface) is that between the complacent population at home and those condemned to die at the Western Front, how there now exists a yawning chasm between them, a complete gulf of knowledge, which makes them almost two entirely different species, barely capable of communication. Us at home, completely removed from the ineffable experience of war, in our complacency and vainglory, were all too happy to send our children to die an ignominious and ghastly death for an all too vapid, purely imperial cause. We are, in the final examination, only worthy of participation in the “eternal reciprocation of tears” — we cannot share what was to be their ephemeral merriment.
I’ve compiled several readings of these poems into a single MP3 and have been prowling my local forests in a dour stupor whilst listening to them. Between that and blasting Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring (with Augurs of Spring blowing my tits off each and every time I hear it) I’ve been one hell of a saturnine figure — goddamn, this shit is miserable, but truly excellent (for the most part). I’ll leave you this poem, one I had never read before, which I thought was pretty bloody good.
Mental Cases
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
—Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness
May 5, 2023
I first encountered Owen's poetry in an anthology, and it moved me so much I bought this collection to discover more. It was as good and as powerful as I thought it would be. It focuses on World War I as the subject, and that made the poetry particularly resonate with me. The collection includes well-known poems such as 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' and 'Dulce et Decorum Est'.
The edition I got is pocket-sized and clothbound, very neat and pleasant.
July 20, 2016
Here is what you need to know about Wilfred Owen: he died too soon.
Owen was twenty-five years old when he was killed in action, exactly one week before the signing of the Armistice would end the war. This means that all of his poems only fill up one 192-page collection (unfinished bits and pieces included) and it is not enough.
The first sixty pages or so are taken up by poems Owen wrote in his youth. Most of these are stylistic exercises, practice runs as he was trying to find his own voice. They are charming enough, but still very derivative (drink every time you see a Keats reference!). However, there is a tangible change in style and quality when Owen joins the army, especially after one particularly traumatic experience in 1916 that got him diagnosed with shell shock and sent to Edinburgh for treatment.
In the two years he spent at the Craiglockhart war hospital, Owen became acquainted with other poets and artists and began to bloom artistically. He was encouraged to write as part of his therapy and he befriended one of his heroes, Siegfried Sassoon, who had been "diagnosed" with "shell shock" as well after writing a controversial letter that condemned the war effort and the government's motives. Their relationship was life-changing for Owen and his work shows an increase in motivation and confidence: the poems become more personal, more honest, and far more painful to read (in a good way). In the two years (!) leading up to his death he wrote some of the most powerful poetry you will ever read, stanzas that will leave you staring at the ceiling, contemplating history, "glory," and human nature in general.
Two years of heart-wrenching poetry is not enough.
Not even close.
Owen was twenty-five years old when he was killed in action, exactly one week before the signing of the Armistice would end the war. This means that all of his poems only fill up one 192-page collection (unfinished bits and pieces included) and it is not enough.
The first sixty pages or so are taken up by poems Owen wrote in his youth. Most of these are stylistic exercises, practice runs as he was trying to find his own voice. They are charming enough, but still very derivative (drink every time you see a Keats reference!). However, there is a tangible change in style and quality when Owen joins the army, especially after one particularly traumatic experience in 1916 that got him diagnosed with shell shock and sent to Edinburgh for treatment.
In the two years he spent at the Craiglockhart war hospital, Owen became acquainted with other poets and artists and began to bloom artistically. He was encouraged to write as part of his therapy and he befriended one of his heroes, Siegfried Sassoon, who had been "diagnosed" with "shell shock" as well after writing a controversial letter that condemned the war effort and the government's motives. Their relationship was life-changing for Owen and his work shows an increase in motivation and confidence: the poems become more personal, more honest, and far more painful to read (in a good way). In the two years (!) leading up to his death he wrote some of the most powerful poetry you will ever read, stanzas that will leave you staring at the ceiling, contemplating history, "glory," and human nature in general.
Two years of heart-wrenching poetry is not enough.
Not even close.
March 28, 2019
Absolutely brilliant.
November 4, 2018
Today is the 100th anniversary of Wilfred Owen’s death, yet his poems remain just as heartbreaking and important as they were all those years ago. Rest in peace, Wilfred ❤️
June 11, 2024
i have no idea why it took my so long to finish this, but i'm glad it did. owen's poetry has always inspired me and made me incredibly sad. i had only known his most famous works but diving into this felt like i was really getting to know wilfred owen. his early work made me smile with a little tear in my eye, you can clearly tell he was young and figuring out life and how to communicate that through his work. his war poems are desperately heartbreaking and real, the complexity of camaraderie with fellow soldiers mixed with the incomprehensible slaughter feels tangible. my favourites were dulce et decorum est (because of course), maundy thursday, disabled, i saw his round mouths crimson and the poet in pain.
February 15, 2012
This particular edition provides an excellent range of footnotes to put many of the particular poems of Owen's into context.
On New Year's Eve 1917, Owen wrote: "I go out of this year a Poet, my dear Mother, as which I did not enter it. I am held peer by the Georgians; I am a poet's poet."
Nearly a century later, time has proven him write and he still speaks to many of us. Most of us are familiar with his poem "Dulce et Decorum est." In some ways, I do feel a pity that we don't look to his work very often except for his unflinching observations of war that serve as ample evidence for the condemnation of conflict. He has poems such as "The Little Mermaid," a 624-line epic that is quite readable, and shows some great influence by Keats, Coleridge, Shakespeare, Spenser and Shelley, especially "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Had he survived, might we regard him a significant speculative poet?
This collection allows us to ponder where he was going with fragments such as "An Imperial Elegy" or "The Wrestlers," regarding Hercules and other figures of Greek myth.
Owen penned poems such a "The Rime Of The Youthful Mariner," "O World of Many Worlds" and "Who Is The God of Canongate?" and while one has to account for the poetic tastes of the time and the importance of rhyme, there's much that remains readable and worth reading.
Such time has passed that one day I hope he'll be regarded as the multidimensional poet he was. He was a solider, he was a poet, he was a voice lost ahead of his time who still speaks to ours.
On New Year's Eve 1917, Owen wrote: "I go out of this year a Poet, my dear Mother, as which I did not enter it. I am held peer by the Georgians; I am a poet's poet."
Nearly a century later, time has proven him write and he still speaks to many of us. Most of us are familiar with his poem "Dulce et Decorum est." In some ways, I do feel a pity that we don't look to his work very often except for his unflinching observations of war that serve as ample evidence for the condemnation of conflict. He has poems such as "The Little Mermaid," a 624-line epic that is quite readable, and shows some great influence by Keats, Coleridge, Shakespeare, Spenser and Shelley, especially "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." Had he survived, might we regard him a significant speculative poet?
This collection allows us to ponder where he was going with fragments such as "An Imperial Elegy" or "The Wrestlers," regarding Hercules and other figures of Greek myth.
Owen penned poems such a "The Rime Of The Youthful Mariner," "O World of Many Worlds" and "Who Is The God of Canongate?" and while one has to account for the poetic tastes of the time and the importance of rhyme, there's much that remains readable and worth reading.
Such time has passed that one day I hope he'll be regarded as the multidimensional poet he was. He was a solider, he was a poet, he was a voice lost ahead of his time who still speaks to ours.
December 13, 2007
I came across Wilfred Owen while researching my novel set in WW1. his poetry is beautiful, haunting, and timeless, but somehow very approachable. The pain and anguish he brings to his most powerful pieces shook me and the beauty of his words made me feel like I was talking to an old friend trying to deal with terrible tragedy. Like Sigfriend Sassoon, his "on-the-ground" poetry does more for describing the soldier's experience than any reported account could dare.
March 29, 2023
Know as a soldier and one of the leading poets of the First World War. His poetry is hard hitting, real and thought provoking. His poetry is not just about war, but the human condition. Highlights ~ "O World of many worlds" "1914" "Happiness" "The Promisers" "Anthem for Doomed Youth" "Disabled" "Dulce et Decorum Est" "Asleep" "Exposure" "S.I.W." "A Terre" "Futility" "Strange Meeting" and "Spring Offensive".
May 12, 2024
the poetry is in the pity
December 11, 2020
Finally after several months I finished this gem. I love English poetry and Especially Wilfred Owen has caught my eye. Now that I finally read his last and best poems I can say: this man knows how to write tragedy, and I mean it as a compliment. When he writes about sacrifice you suffer along and when he writes about beauty your find yourself smiling. Yet he is incredibly rich in word and styles which made it a hard read for me sometimes since I'm not a native English speaker (that's why only 4 stars)
February 24, 2023
Technically, it's 2.5 out of 5 stars.
For the most part, it was an okay read, although there was a somberness to it.
For the most part, it was an okay read, although there was a somberness to it.
June 8, 2012
Unfortunately, war is an unmitigated part of the human experience. Wilfred Owen, a British soldier in the first world war, became the greatest poet ever to write about war. In places, Owen gives us the guns of war--brutal, percussive descriptions of death as in "Anthem"; in other places, Owen laments delicately as in "Futility" (pg. 135).
Owen shows us a world "wound with war's hard wire" that is "but the trembling of a flare," but Owen also perceives beauty "in hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight" and even finds peace "where shell storms spouted reddest spate."
Owen did not believe that we could fully understand war except we share in the "sorrowful dark of hell" as he experienced it. For us civilians who, thanks to brave soldiers, have not experienced war first-hand, Wilfred Owen brings us as near as we may possibly get.
Owen's poetry articulates the duality of "war's hard wire"--the barbs of painful experience and the strong wire that binds our hearts in fellowship and in the "silentness of duty."
I'll wrap up my review by listing Owen's Poem "Futility" where Owen laments the death of his friend and fellow soldier.
Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Owen shows us a world "wound with war's hard wire" that is "but the trembling of a flare," but Owen also perceives beauty "in hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight" and even finds peace "where shell storms spouted reddest spate."
Owen did not believe that we could fully understand war except we share in the "sorrowful dark of hell" as he experienced it. For us civilians who, thanks to brave soldiers, have not experienced war first-hand, Wilfred Owen brings us as near as we may possibly get.
Owen's poetry articulates the duality of "war's hard wire"--the barbs of painful experience and the strong wire that binds our hearts in fellowship and in the "silentness of duty."
I'll wrap up my review by listing Owen's Poem "Futility" where Owen laments the death of his friend and fellow soldier.
Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
January 24, 2015
Wilfred Owen was the first poet to make me even interested in the genre, which I suppose some people would find to be as a bit of a surprise. For the longest time, the genre intimidated me, but then a friend started talking about how Owen twisted his words and the poignant sadness of his short life's tale, and I reasoned, "Why not?" So I nosed around the Poetry Foundation and found a few I rather liked. Later, I picked up this chapbook from Project Gutenberg. It was a wise decision.
Naturally, some of the poems within are rough, but given that none of these were necessarily meant for publication due to Owen's untimely death, they're all exquisite little creatures. It would be easy to quote "Anthem For Doomed Youth" or "Dulce et Decorum est" (which are good), but I'll go ahead and quote these two lines from the stanza of "Greater Love," which manage to rip me open entirely: "Your slender attitude / Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed..." I only have a few words for this: holy shit.
Naturally, some of the poems within are rough, but given that none of these were necessarily meant for publication due to Owen's untimely death, they're all exquisite little creatures. It would be easy to quote "Anthem For Doomed Youth" or "Dulce et Decorum est" (which are good), but I'll go ahead and quote these two lines from the stanza of "Greater Love," which manage to rip me open entirely: "Your slender attitude / Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed..." I only have a few words for this: holy shit.
April 29, 2014
It breaks my heart everytime I read these poems. And the fact that Owen experienced the horror of war himself makes his writing even more chilling. I can't choose a favorite because essentially, all of them tell different stories that can be linked to the different times in Owen's life, whether it was during his naivety of war or during his actual experience of war. Each poem is special in their own way thus they hold a special place in my heart but I will say, Disabled made me tear up a bit and Dulce et Decorum Est was an eye opener. I just love them all.
August 13, 2014
touching and simply brilliant.... i have never though that i will sympathize with the poor devastated soldiers after reading his poems. all the respect for him and all the innocent soldiers who died in a war that they resent..
May 2, 2016
"Mental Cases" is one of the most haunting poems I've come across to date. I would heartily recommend this to any poetry fan, but most especially to those who appreciate this collection's inherent historicity.
July 23, 2020
One can detect the makings a great poet in these few verses of Wilfred Owen. Such a shame to be cut off in his prime.
March 20, 2015
4.5 stars
Wonderful. Extraordinary. Memorable.
Wonderful. Extraordinary. Memorable.
November 4, 2017
Loved this!
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