Poems by Wilfred Owen - In the Trenches

Wilfred Owen

• Publisher: Last Post Press
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781528789721
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Poetry
• Index: Literature

"Poems by Wilfred Owen - In the Trenches" is a 1920 collection of poetry by English poet and soldier Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (1893–1918). A leading poet during the First World War, his work concentrated on life in the trenches and gas warfare. Some of his best-known works include: "Dulce et Decorum est", "Insensibility", "Spring Offensive", "Anthem for Doomed Youth", "Futility", and "Strange Meeting". The poems include: "Strange Meeting", "Greater Love", "Apologia Pro Poemate Meo", "The Show", "Mental Cases", "Parable Of The Old Men And The Young", "Arms And The Boy", "Anthem For Doomed Youth", "The Send-Off", "Insensibility", "Dulce Et Decorum Est", "The Sentry", etc. A moving and stark representation of the horrors of life on the front lines not to be missed by fans and collectors of war poetry.

A TERRE

(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.

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 brick!

We used to say we'd hate to live dead old,—

Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald,

And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys

At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose

Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,

Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.

Well, that's what I learnt,—that, and making money.

Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?

Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year

To help myself to nothing more than air!

One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?

Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,

And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.

My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!

When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.

Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought

How well I might have swept his floors for ever,

I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over,

Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced

Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,

Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,

Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?

I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,

Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?

O Life, Life, let me breathe,—a dug-out rat!

Not worse than ours the existences rats lead—

Nosing along at night down some safe vat,

They find a shell-proof home before they rot.

Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,

Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,

And subd...