Nov 11: Dulce et Decorum est
[Note: This is a repost from last year.]
War. There always seems to be another one. And that is sad. Many soldiers have died fighting for various reasons, some right, some wrong. People enlist in armies for various reasons, some right, some wrong.
A country’s army is meant to protect it’s citizens, and we should all honor the sacrifice of those who have lost their lives because their countries have gone to war for various reasons, some right, some wrong.
This poem has always stuck with me from the first time I read it in university English course. The title is in such stark contrast with the experience of the author, Wilfred Edward Salter Owen (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) an English poet and soldier. Wounded and sent home in 1917, he returned to the war in August 1918 and was killed a week before Armistice Day.
This poem takes its its title from a poem by Roman poet Horace, and means “it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country” and I think it is one of the greatest poems ever written.
Dulce et Decorum estBent 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, 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.
Leon Stevens is a multi-genre author, composer, guitarist, songwriter, and an artist, with a Bachelor of Music and Education. He published his first book of poetry, Lines by Leon: Poems, Prose, and Pictures in January 2020, followed by a book of original classical guitar compositions, Journeys, and a short story collection of science fiction/post-apocalyptic tales called The Knot at the End of the Rope and Other Short Stories. His newest publications are the novella trilogy, The View from Here, which is a continuation of one of his short stories, a new collection of poetry titled, A Wonder of Words, and his latest sci-fi mystery, Euphrates Vanished.
My new book page: http://books.linesbyleon.com/
Free books? Sign up for my bi-weekly newsletter and choose one or more!
books.linesbyleon.com/Newslettersignup
