Every young man or woman who is considering enlisting in the military should not only educate themselves on the shell game that is our current "conflict" (now five years and counting, as we were clearly reminded yesterday) but should read Owen's poetry if they need further convincing.
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 trees,
And 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; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
For 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 fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired 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.
Tonight 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?
6 comments:
Wow. That might be one of the most beautiful things I’ve read in a long time. Just brilliant.
Oh... I thought you said "Wilfred Brimley."
Neil: Thank you; I agree. You should check out his other poetry, too: emotionally shattering.
Kenn: It's Wilford Brimley, smartass.
While it may seem strange (or inappropriate) to make this comparison, reading this poem immediately reminded me of the final season of Blackadder. That season was set during World War I and revolved around two interlinked themes that still run deep in the British psyche: the incompetence of the British high command, and the waste laid upon an entire generation as so many men went willingly to noble (yet frequently futile) ends. It's worth another look if you haven't seen it in a while... the final scene is available here.
I can see where you'd make the connection. Blackadder is a fine show, and I do remember the final scene being quite moving. I will wait to see it again after rewatching that whole season. Thanks for reminding me of its relevance!
Addendum: My brother wanted me to post a better, longer clip of the final scene mentioned above. Here you go: Blackadder
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