Poems by Wilfred Owen – Reviewed
Wilfred Owen
Greater Love Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! Your slender attitude Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care; Till the fierce Love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. Your voice sings not so soft,— Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,— Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom none now hear Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. Heart, you were never hot, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail: Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.Parable of the Old Men and the Young So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, And builded parapets and trenches there, And stretch\ed forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him. Behold, A ram caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son. . . .Futility Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds— Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides Full-nerved,—still warm,—too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? —O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?Wild with all Regrets (Another version of "A Terre".) To Siegfried Sassoon My arms have mutinied against me—brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours. Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease. I can't read. There: it's no use. Take your book. A short life and a merry one, my buck! We said we'd hate to grow dead old. But now, Not to live old seems awful: not to renew My boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting, Shooting and hunting,—all the arts of hurting! —Well, that's what I learnt. That, and making money. Your fifty years in store seem none too many; But I've five minutes. God! For just two years To help myself to this good air of yours! One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long? Spring air would find its own way to my lung, And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. Yes, there's the orderly. He'll change the sheets When I'm lugged out, oh, couldn't I do that? Here in this coffin of a bed, I've thought I'd like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,— And ask no nights off when the bustle's over, For I'd enjoy 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? Dear dust,—in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan! I'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as Town; Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? A flea would do. If one chap wasn't bloody, Or went stone-cold, I'd find another body. Which I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours. I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours. You'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest, And climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind. I think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weaned To do without what blood remained me from my wound. 5th December 1917.© by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
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You may find this and other poems here.
This poem is a part of a collection Poems by Wilfred Owens, and can be found on Goodreads here, with this review posted here.
Analysis
Wilfred Owen’s Poems is a raw and brutally honest collection of verses that captures the true horror of war. Written by a soldier who fought in the trenches of World War I, Owen’s work pulls no punches in portraying the physical and emotional devastation soldiers endured. Having experienced the violence and trauma himself, Owen’s poems are deeply personal, and the vivid imagery he uses brings the nightmarish reality of warfare to life.
One of the main themes throughout the collection is the futility and senselessness of war. Owen constantly challenges the romanticized view of war that was popular at the time. Poems like Dulce et Decorum Est tear apart the notion that dying for one’s country is a noble and honorable act. In this poem, Owen describes the agonizing death of a soldier from a gas attack, his body contorted and blood gurgling from his mouth. The vivid, grotesque images leave no space for any idealized notion of heroism. The line “It is sweet and honorable to die for your country” is turned on its head, exposing the cruelty and absurdity of a system that sends young men to die in such a horrific manner.
Owen’s portrayal of the psychological toll of war is equally devastating. In Mental Cases, he describes soldiers who are physically alive but mentally broken, their minds scarred by the trauma of what they’ve seen and done. In Insensibility, he suggests that soldiers have to shut off their emotions in order to survive, which leads to a kind of numbness. The poem’s detached structure mirrors the emotional detachment soldiers must develop to endure the chaos of battle. But Owen never loses sight of their humanity, and in The Dead-Beat, he captures the tragic numbness of a soldier who seems to have lost all will to live. His poems are not just about physical wounds; they are about the deep emotional and psychological scars left by war, scars that are often invisible but just as debilitating.
The tone of Owen’s poetry is marked by bitterness, sorrow, and dark irony. He is never sentimental about the soldiers he writes about. In poems like Anthem for Doomed Youth and The Send-Off, Owen critiques the disconnect between the idealized vision of war and the brutal reality of death and suffering. In Anthem for Doomed Youth, he contrasts the idea of soldiers being honored in death with the grim reality that their only “send-off” is the noise of battle. The mournful tone in this poem is one of anger, as Owen decries the lack of respect for the soldiers who sacrifice their lives for a senseless cause.
However, even amid the darkness, Owen’s poetry is filled with moments of tragic beauty. In Greater Love, he contrasts the superficial love of women with the purity of the love soldiers share for one another, a love forged in the crucible of battle. The imagery of hearts “made great with shot” is a powerful metaphor for the selflessness and sacrifice of soldiers. Even as Owen mourns the loss of life and innocence, there is a deep respect for the humanity that emerges from such suffering.
The structure of Owen’s poems mirrors the disorientation and fragmentation caused by war. In many of his works, the lines are irregular, with enjambment creating a sense of chaos and instability. The form reflects the fractured lives of soldiers, whose sense of time and reality is often warped by the violence they witness. The broken, erratic rhythms in Dulce et Decorum Est and Exposure convey the exhaustion, panic, and disarray that soldiers feel as they march through the horrors of war. The repetition of the phrase “But nothing happens” in Exposure reflects the sense of futility, as soldiers wait for action that never seems to come.
What sets Owen’s Poems apart from other war poetry is the empathy he brings to his subjects. His poems are not just about the horrors of war—they are about the men who live and die in it. Owen never lets us forget that these soldiers are real people, not just symbols of national pride or sacrifice. In Smile, Smile, Smile, he sarcastically critiques the way society celebrates war, contrasting the wounded soldiers’ pain with the empty patriotism of those on the homefront. The poem’s bitter tone shows how little understanding or respect there is for the suffering of the men who fought.
The collection also addresses the internal struggles of soldiers, as seen in poems like S. I. W. and The Chances. In S. I. W., Owen describes a soldier who, worn down by the constant torment of war, takes his own life. The poem powerfully conveys the emotional agony of soldiers who feel they have no escape from their suffering. Owen’s portrayal of the soldier’s final moments as both a release and a tragic failure speaks to the emotional devastation that soldiers experience—often pushed to the brink of madness by the horrors around them.
Owen’s use of language is often stark, direct, and visceral. In Futility, he meditates on the absurdity of death, as a soldier who once awoke “by the kind old sun” now lies cold and lifeless, untouched by the sun’s warmth. The simplicity of the language in this poem makes the loss feel all the more immediate and real. Owen doesn’t need to embellish or soften the truth of death—he confronts it head-on, forcing the reader to face the devastating impact of war without any illusions.
Ultimately, Poems by Wilfred Owen is a collection that forces readers to confront the dark, unrelenting reality of war. It is not a glorification of sacrifice or heroism, but a raw portrayal of the pain, loss, and futility that soldiers experience. Through his vivid imagery, fragmented structures, and darkly ironic tone, Owen creates a powerful anti-war message that challenges romanticized notions of battle and heroism. His poems remind us that the true cost of war is not in medals or monuments, but in the broken bodies and minds of those who survive—and in the lives lost that can never be brought back.
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