Saturday 11 November 2006

11.11.11


Halted against the shade of a last hill
They fed, and eased of pack-loads, were at ease;
And leaning on the nearest chest or knees,
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge;
And though the summer oozed into their veins
Like an injected drug for their bodies' pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent ridge of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.

Hour after hour they ponder the warm field
And the far valley behind, where the buttercups
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up;
When even the little brambles would not yield
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing arms.
They breathe like trees unstirred.

Till like a cold gust thrills the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste,-
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun,-
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.

So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; earth set sudden cups
In thousands for their blood; and the green slope
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high place
Breasted the surf of bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence' brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink,
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames-
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder-
Why speak not they of comrades that went under?

Spring Offensive, Wilfred Owen


(See also this and this).

4 comments:

Ashley said...

Jeez--Wilfred Owen just blows me away. I'm teaching him and Seigfried Sassoon on Monday, and I always have to steel myself a little so that I don't cry during that particular class. It's Dulce et Decorum Est that always gets me, particularly nowadays.

Anonymous said...

Beautiful..

Marie said...

Perhaps more of the career politians who carelessly send off other's sons and daughters to war should read more poetry and think a little deeper.
Thank you for the wonderful poem.

jasmine said...

hey pip (can i call you that?)

Firstly, I love your photography, its simple yet beautiful. Secondly, I have nearly finished the hat, but having tried it on I beleive that I will have to confine it to life as a tea cosy!

Hopefully see you soon.

jasmine xx

PS do you know of an easy to follow online sock pattern? I have decided that perseverance is THE only way i can get better at knitting.