"Dulce et Decorum est"
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Bent on
doubles, like rueful
hacks*
Knock-kneed, distended like bags, we cursed our guts,
Till on the moistened bar we turned our backs,
And towards the distant restroom began to trudge.
Men went asleep. Many wet their boots,
But dripped on, bloodshot. All went down in flames, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the shoos
Gassed! GASSED! Slick boys—in ecstasy fumbling
Flitting at
barflies, limp helmets drooping, dying,
But someone still was sighing
ow and mumbling
Floundering—zip, nick, drip of
Fireball or lime.—
As over a salted rim, I saw him
saucing.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges, stick in, stick out, hurling,
saucing.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could face
The fine and the paddy wagon they flung him in,
And watch the bloodshot eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a drooler's sick in sink,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the flood
Come gargling from this froth-corrupted bum
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on
bargirl tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children desperate for some weekend glory,
- *HACK: 3a: a person who works solely for mercenary reasons: HIRELING. b: a writer who works on order also: a writer who aims solely for commercial success (Merriam-Webster).
ORIGINAL: "Dulce et Decorum est"
Poet and WWI soldier 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,
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.
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
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
ABOUT: Wilfred Edward Salter Owen MC (March 18, 1893–Nov. 4, 1918) was an English poet and soldier. He was one of the leading poets of the First World War. His war poetry on the horrors of trenches and gas warfare was much influenced by his mentor Siegfried Sassoon and stood in contrast to the public perception of war at the time as glorious and to the confidently patriotic verse written by earlier war poets such as Rupert Brooke. Among his best-known works -- most of which were published posthumously -- after his tragic early death are "Dulce et Decorum est," "Insensibility," "Anthem for Doomed Youth," "Futility," "Spring Offensive," and "Strange Meeting." Owen was killed in action at the age of 25 on Nov. 4, 1918, a week before the war's end. More
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