”1914” - John McGlashan College...

JOHN MCGLASHAN COLLEGE: IB ENGLISH LITERATURE A 2013INDIVIDUAL ORAL COMMENTARY

THE POETRY OF WILFRED OWEN (SL AND HL TEXT)

This anthology contains the poems that will be used as part of your IOC assessment as well as some supplementary poems that will be of interest and may provide some useful background reading.

The poems are:

1 “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”2 “1914”3 “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young”4 “Spring Offensive”5 “Dulce et Decorum Est 6 “Chances”7 “Anthem for Doomed Youth”8 “The Send-Off”9 “Disabled”10 “Mental Cases”

Supplementary poems – not for assessment11 “Who’s For The Game?” Pope12 “The Soldier” Brooke13 “Perhaps” Brittain14 “Spring in War-Time” Nesbit

of 15

“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, too, have dropped off fear-- Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear, Past the entanglement where hopes lie strewn;

And witnessed exhultation-- Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul.

I have made fellowships-- Untold of happy lovers in old song. For love is not the binding of fair lips With the soft silk of eyes that look and long.

By joy, whose ribbon slips,-- But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

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.

Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but a trembling of a flare And heaven but a highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

of 15

”1914”War broke: and now the Winter of the worldWith perishing great darkness closes in.The foul tornado, centred at Berlin,Is over all the width of Europe whirled,Rending the sails of progress. Rent or furledAre all Art's ensigns. Verse wails. Now beginFamines of thought and feeling. Love's wine's thin.The grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.

For after Spring had bloomed in early Greece,And Summer blazed her glory out with Rome,An Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,A slow grand age, and rich with all increase.But now, for us, wild Winter, and the needOf sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed.

of 15

“The Parable of the Old Man and the Young”

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,Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,Behold the preparations, fire and iron,But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,and builded parapets and trenches there,And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,Neither do anything to him. Behold,A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

of 15

“Spring Offensive”

Halted against the shade of a last hill,They fed, and lying easy, were at easeAnd, finding comfortable chests and knees,Carelessly slept. But many there stood stillTo face the stark blank sky beyond the ridge,Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.

Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirledBy the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,For though the summer oozed into their veinsLike an injected drug for their bodies’ pains,Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,Fearfully flashed the sky’s mysterious glass.

Hour after hour they ponder the warm field,-And the far valley behind, where the buttercupHad blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,Where even the little brambles would not yieldBut clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands.They breathe like trees unstirred.

Till like a cold gust thrills the little wordAt which each body and its soul begirdAnd tighten them for battle. No alarmsOf bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste,-Only a lift and flare of eyes that facedThe sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.O larger shone that smile against the sun,-Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.

So, soon they topped the hill, and raced togetherOver an open stretch of herb and heatherExposed. And instantly the whole sky burnedWith fury against them; earth set sudden cupsIn thousands for their blood; and the green slopeChasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high placeLeapt to swift unseen bullets, or went upOn the hot blast and fury of hell’s upsurge,Or plunged and fell away past the world’s verge,Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence’ brinkVentured but drave too swift to sink,The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,And there out-fiending all its fiends and flamesWith superhuman inhumanities,Long famous glories, immemorial shames-And crawling slowly back have by degreesRegained cool peaceful air in wonder-Why speak not they of comrades that went under?

of 15

“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 our backsAnd towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their bootsBut limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf 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 stumblingAnd 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 paceBehind 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 bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, –My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.

of 15

“Chances”

I mind as 'ow the night afore that showUs five got talking, -- we was in the know,"Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it,First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it.""Ah well," says Jimmy, -- an' 'e's seen some scrappin' --"There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen;Ye get knocked out; else wounded -- bad or cushy;Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy."

One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops.T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props.An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites,'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz.Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty(Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty),But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not;'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad;'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot --The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.

of 15

“Anthem for Doomed Youth”

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

of 15

“The Send-Off”

Down the close darkening lanes they sang their wayTo the siding-shed,And lined the train with faces grimly gay.

Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and sprayAs men's are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual trampStood staring hard,Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.

Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lampWinked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.They were not ours:We never heard to which front these were sent.

Nor there if they yet mock what women meantWho gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bellsIn wild train-loads?A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,

May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.

of 15

“Disabled”

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 treesand 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; and no fears Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hiltsfor 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 fruitsThanked him; and then inquired 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.To-night 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?

of 15

“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’ teeth wicked?Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic,Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?Ever from their hair and through their hands’ palmsMisery swelters. Surely we have perishedSleeping, 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 squanderRucked too thick for these men’s extrication.

Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormentedBack into their brains, because on their senseSunlight seems a blood-smear, 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.

of 15

Supplementary Poems – These will not be assessed as part of your IOC.

“Who’s For The Game?”

Who’s for the game, the biggest that’s played, The red crashing game of a fight? Who’ll grip and tackle the job unafraid? And who thinks he’d rather sit tight?

Who’ll toe the line for the signal to ‘Go!’? Who’ll give his country a hand? Who wants a turn to himself in the show? And who wants a seat in the stand?

Who knows it won’t be a picnic – not much- Yet eagerly shoulders a gun? Who would much rather come back with a crutch Than lie low and be out of the fun?

Come along, lads – But you’ll come on all right – For there’s only one course to pursue, Your country is up to her neck in a fight, And she’s looking and calling for you.

Jessie Pope

of 15

“The Soldier”

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke

of 15

“Perhaps”

(To R A L Died of wounds in France, December 23rd 1915)

Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,And I shall see that still the skies are blue,And feel once more I do not live in vain,Although bereft of You.

Perhaps the golden meadows at my feetWill make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,Though You have passed away.

Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,And crimson roses once again be fair,And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,Although You are not there.

But though kind Time may many joys renew,There is one greatest joy I shall not knowAgain, because my heart for loss of YouWas broken, long ago.

Vera Brittain

of 15

“Spring In War-Time”

Now the sprinkled blackthorn snowLies along the lovers’ laneWhere last year we used to go—Where we shall not go again.

In the hedge the buds are new,By our wood the violets peer—Just like last year’s violets, too,But they have no scent this year.

Every bird has heart to singOf its nest, warmed by its breast;We had heart to sing last spring,But we never built our nest.

Presently red roses blownWill make all the garden gay . . .Not yet have the daisies grownOn your clay.

Edith Nesbit

of 15

”1914” - John McGlashan College...

Documents

Transcript of ”1914” - John McGlashan College...