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"I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

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  • "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

    Tomorrow at 5:50pm on BBC1 you will learn who Wilfred Owen was. The quote that is the name of this thread was on my signature on CAG for most of the time I was on there. In point of fact, I changed it as a sign that I was no longer a member of their site and that the time had come to leave the World War One poet behind and move further on to the Human Rights Movement of the USA for my signature quote.

  • #2
    Re: "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

    I did the poems of Wilfred Owen for my English Lit O'Level, way back in the mid 80's

    Comment


    • #3
      Re: "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

      Strange Meeting



      It seemed that out of battle I escaped
      Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
      Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

      Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
      Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
      Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
      With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
      Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
      And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
      By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

      With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
      Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
      And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
      'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
      'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
      The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
      Was my life also; I went hunting wild
      After the wildest beauty in the world,
      Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
      But mocks the steady running of the hour,
      And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
      For by my glee might many men have laughed,
      And of my weeping something had been left,
      Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
      The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
      Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
      Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
      They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
      None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
      Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
      Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
      To miss the march of this retreating world
      Into vain citadels that are not walled.
      Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
      I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
      Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
      I would have poured my spirit without stint
      But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
      Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

      I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
      I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
      Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
      I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
      Let us sleep now...'

      Comment


      • #4
        Re: "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

        Wilfred Owen

        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 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 disappointed shells 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 stumbling
        And floundering 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, bitter as the cud
        Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
        My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
        To children ardent for some desperate glory,
        The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
        Pro patria mori.

        Comment


        • #5
          Re: "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

          Anthem for Doomed Youth

          What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
          - Only the monstruous 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.

          Comment


          • #6
            Re: "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

            I used to love wifred owens poetry at school - especially anthem for a doomed youth - he wrote amazingly well and really brought the feel of things home to you.
            #staysafestayhome

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            • #7
              Re: "I am the enemy you killed my friend" Wilfred Owen.....who is he?

              other poets of world war one, Athur West "God, How I hate you".

              God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men,
              Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
              As soon as you are in them, nurtured up
              By the salt of your corruption, and the tears
              Of mothers, local vicars, college deans,
              And flanked by prefaces and photographs
              From all you minor poet friends — the fools —
              Who paint their sentimental elegies
              Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share
              The dead’s brief immortality
              Oh Christ!
              To think that one could spread the ductile wax
              Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires
              And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants —
              “Oh happy to have lived these epic days” —
              “These epic days”! And he’d been to France,
              And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead
              In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire:
              Chobed by their sickley fœtor, day and night
              Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths,
              Proved all that muddy brown monotony,
              Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps
              Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night,
              Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step,
              His neck against the back slope of the trench,
              And the rest doubled up between, his head
              Smashed like and egg-shell, and the warm grey brain
              Spattered all bloody on the parados:
              Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend,
              Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes — gone!
              Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right
              In the best possible of worlds. The woe,
              Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only
              A seeming woe, we cannot understand.
              God loves us, God looks down on this out strife
              And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times
              And calls some warriors home. We do not die,
              God would not let us, He is too “intense,”
              Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He
              Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is!
              On earth, the love and fellowship of men,
              Men sternly banded: banded for what end?
              Banded to maim and kill their fellow men —
              For even Huns are men. In heaven above
              A genial umpire, a good judge of sport,
              Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice
              God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold.
              Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems,
              Large as a mustard-seed) — we trust and trust,
              Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is
              To suffer us to be born just now, when youth
              That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore,
              Where very God Himself does seem to walk
              The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!

              Comment

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