
Of
all the World War I poets, Wilfred Owen stands up best, I
think (and yes, I do know I am far from alone). His words feel much more modern
to me, almost contemporary. "And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds." Great word control.
Here
are two other passages from him:
The
burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,
Pause
over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice . . . .
And
then there is this:
Happy
are those who lose imagination:
They
have enough to carry with ammunition.
And
of course if you haven't read his great poem about a
gas attack,
you should do that right now.
Published on March 06, 2013 07:43