Poetry in Context: WW1

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Teacher(s):………………………………………………Anthem for Doomed Youth

BY WILFRED OWEN

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?      — Only the monstrous anger of the guns.      Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan 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 eyesShall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.      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.

September - October, 1917

Orisons: Prayers Bugle: Trumpet Pallour: Paleness Pall: Cloth which is spread over a

coffin

"Dulce et Decorum Est "BY 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 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 I 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.

(1917)

FutilityBY WILFRED OWEN

Move him into the sun—Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it awoke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.If anything might rouse him nowThe 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 sidesFull-nerved,—still warm,—too hard to stir?Was it for this the clay grew tall?—O what made fatuous sunbeams toilTo break earth's sleep at all?

(1918)

Who’s for the Game? BY JESSIE POPE

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

(1916)

The DeserterBY WINIFRED MARY LETTS

There was a man, - don't mind his name, Whom Fear had dogged by night and day. He could not face the German guns And so he turned and ran away. Just that - he turned and ran away, But who can judge him, you or I ? God makes a man of flesh and blood Who yearns to live and not to die. And this man when he feared to die Was scared as any frightened child, His knees were shaking under him, His breath came fast, his eyes were wild. I've seen a hare with eyes as wild, With throbbing heart and sobbing breath. But oh ! it shames one's soul to see A man in abject fear of death, But fear had gripped him, so had death; His number had gone up that day, They might not heed his frightened eyes, They shot him when the dawn was grey. Blindfolded, when the dawn was grey, He stood there in a place apart, The shots rang out and down he fell, An English bullet in his heart. An English bullet in his heart ! But here's the irony of life, - His mother thinks he fought and fell A hero, foremost in the strife. So she goes proudly; to the strife Her best, her hero son she gave. O well for her she does not know He lies in a deserter's grave.

(1916)

The SoldierBY RUPERT BROOKE

If I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign fieldThat is for ever England. There shall beIn 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 lessGives 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. 

(1914)

Suicide in the Trenches

BY SIEGFRIED SASSOON

I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.

(1918)

In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE

In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.

(May 1915)

To My Brother (In Memory of July 1st 1916)

BY VERA BRITTAIN

Your battle-wounds are scars upon my heart, Received when in that grand and tragic 'show' You played your part, Two years ago, 

And silver in the summer morning sun I see the symbol of your courage glow -- That Cross you won Two years ago. 

Though now again you watch the shrapnel fly, And hear the guns that daily louder grow, As in July Two years ago. 

May you endure to lead the Last Advance And with your men pursue the flying foe As once in France Two years ago. 

(First published 1933)

PluckBY EVA DOBELLL

Crippled for life at seventeen,His great eyes seem to question why:With both legs smashed it might have beenBetter in that grim trench to dieThan drag maimed years out helplessly.

A child - so wasted and so white,He told a lie to get his way,To march, a man with men, and fightWhile other boys are still at play.A gallant lie your heart will say.

So broke with pain, he shrinks in dreadTo see the 'dresser' drawing near;And winds the clothes about his headThat none may see his heart-sick fear.His shaking, strangled sobs you hear.

But when the dreaded moment's thereHe'll face us all, a soldier yet,Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),And smoke his woodbine cigarette.

(1916)

The Target

BY IVOR GURNEY

I shot him, and it had to be One of us "Twas him or me. 'Couln't be helped' and none can blame Me, for you would do the same 

My mother, she cant sleep for fear Of what might be a-happening here To me. Perhaps it might be best To die, and set her fears at rest 

For worst is worst, and worry's done. Perhaps he was the only son. . . Yet God keeps still, and does not say A word of guidance anyway. 

Well, if they get me, first I'll find That boy, and tell him all my mind, And see who felt the bullet worst, And ask his pardon,if I durst. 

All's a tangle. Here's my job. A man might rave, or shout, or sob; And God He takes takes no sort of heed. This is a bloody mess indeed. 

First published (1919)