dulce et decorum est by wilfred owen

April 1, 1917 - British Capture Savy Wood, Wilfred Owen Comes Down with “Shell-Shock”

Pictured - Wildred Owen, who wrote some of the most famous war poetry including “Dulce et Decorum Est.” He was killed in action on November 4, 1918, one week to the hour before the Armistice was signed.

In action on April 1st, the British Army captured Savy Wood, four miles from the town of St. Quentin near Arras. St. Quentin’s cathedral spire could now easily be made out in the distance. The battle was part of the preparation for the big push in spring, which was to be under the overall command of France’s new commander-in-chief, Robert Nivelle, who promised that at the helm he could end the war in a matter of weeks.

One of the soldiers fighting at Savy Wood that day was Wilfred Owen. Owen was a great friend of Siegfried Sassoon and alongside him perhaps the greatest poet of the Great War. “Dulce et Decorum Est” and “Anthem for Doomed Youth” are still the first things many think of today when they think of the First World War.

Owen led his platoon forward though an artillery barrage on April 1, storming a German trench only to find that its occupants had already retreated. The bombardment had severely shaken Owen nevertheless, and he laid down on a railway embankment to go to sleep when another “near-miss” blew him high into the air. This time his nerves could not handle the strain. The artillery shell “left him sheltering helplessly, close to the dismembered remains of another officer. When he got back to base, people noticed that he was trembling, confused, and stammering. It seems probable that his courage was called into question in some way by the CO, who may even have called him a coward.” 

Although his CO showed no sympathy, a doctor diagnosed Owen with shell-shock. The shaken poet went to a hospital behind the lines at Etretat. Writing home on a postcard depicting the cliffs near the town, Owen recorded his delight at the respite: “This is the kind of Paradise I am in at present. No. 1 General Hospital. The doctor, orderlies, and sisters are all Americans, strangely from New York! I may get permission to go boating and even to bathe.” After a while, he returned to Britain and went to the Craiglockhart War Hospital for Neurasthenic Officers, where he composed some short lines on the inmates there:

These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.

Memory fingers in their hair of murders,

Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. 

9

poetry aesthetics: dulce et decorum est by wilfred owen

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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.

Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen - Arrows Of Desire Poetry Series - Channel 4 TV

Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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.

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.
—  Wilfred Owen, from “Dulce Et Decorum Est”

ANTHEMS FOR DOOMED YOUTHS

Songs for and poems by the war poets.

1. Anthem For Doomed Youth (Wilfred Owen) - Sean Bean   |   2. The Half-Killed - Dario Marianelli   |   3. The Last Laugh (Wilfred Own) - Sean Bean   |   4. Panic Attack - Turin Brakes   |   5. Attack (Siegfried Sassoon) - Gemma Arterton   |   6. Elegy For Dunkirk - Dario Marianelli   |   7. Dulce et Decorum Est (Wilfred Own) - Christopher Eccleston   |   8.  Broken Crown - Mumford & Sons   |   9. How To Kill (Keith Douglas) - Noel Clarke   |   10. Letters - Yann Tiersen   |   11. Arms and the Boy (Wilfred Own) - Gemma Arterton   |   12. Well Worn Hand - Editors   |   13. Suicide In The Trenches (Siegfried Sassoon) - Stephen Graham   |   14. Shallow Grave - The Tallest Man On Earth   |   15. In Times Of Peace (John Agard) - Noel Clarke   |   16. After The Bombs - The Decemberists   |   17. Last Post (Carol Ann Duffy) - Vicky McClure   |   18. Home From War - Frightened Rabbit   |   19. The Dug Out (Siegfried Sassoon) - Sophie Okondeo   |   20. Ghosts That We Knew - Mumford & Sons   |   21. The Soldier (Rupert Brooke) - Sophie Okondeo   |   22. Goodbye England (Covered In Snow) - Laura Marling   |   Bonus: The Soldiering Life - The Decemberists

8tracks

Letteratura inglese di quinta liceo in pillole

William Blake - Un tipo ambiguo che non sapeva cosa voleva dalla vita, infatti era poeta, disegnatore, artista, fruttivendolo, commesso. Vedeva spazzacamini, bambini morti e giovani prostitute che mandavano maledizioni tipo streghe ovunque. 

William Wordsworth - Quando leggo il suo nome ormai mi metto a ridere. Si faceva con lo stesso oppio del compagno vecchio marinaio Samuel Coleridge che per qualche motivo non è riuscito ad avere un posto nel programma d’inglese della mia classe. Ha anticipato Heidi e le sue caprette che fanno ciao, solamente che a lui sono i Duffodils a fare ciao

John Keats - Un ibrido (perché solo così si può definire) tra Leopardi, Verga e Pascoli. Come al buon vecchio Leopardi anche a lui le donne si sono rifiutate di darla e come il buon vecchio Pascoli gli sono morti tutti in famiglia e non ha venduto un tubo in vita come il siciliano Giovanni Verga. Muore anche lui giovane, rivalutato poco dopo da due grandi menti dell’età vittoriana: Oscar Wilde e Matthew Arnold. Viene etichettato anche come l’erede di Shakespeare

Mary Shelley - Ha scritto Frankestein e non è niente come nelle seimila storie che ci hanno raccontato, non è vero che c’è una folla coi forconi ed il fuoco che vuole uccidere il mostro. E’ stato un trauma per me sapere ciò. 

Charles Dickens - Dato che si era parlato poco di bambini sfruttati col povero Blake, Dickens riprende i mostriciattoli legandoli ad un contesto storico facendoli vivere svariate avventure. Dickens è sicuramente il migliore autore di questo periodo, superato per me in genialità solo da Oscar Wilde, impossibile da non amare i suoi personaggi Oliver Twist e David Copperfield.

Oscar Wilde - I migliori scrittori della letteratura inglese non sono inglesi, sappiatelo. Scrittore irlandese, alternativo (dandy), omosessuale e citato ovunque, non ha bisogno di presentazioni. Autore del Ritratto di Dorian Gray, del De Profundis e dell’importanza di chiamarsi Ernesto, è sicuramente l’autore più sperimentale del periodo, ha affrontato tutti i tipi di storie, partendo dalle storie brevi (il fantasma di Canterville) fino a giungere al racconto giallo (Il delitto di Lord Arthur Savile).

Nathaniel Hawthorne - Scrittore americano, ha scritto uno dei sette capolavori della letteratura americana, La Lettera Scarlatta. Bisogna riconoscergli il merito di essere l’unica persona che è riuscito a trasformare il cornuto nel cattivo della vicenda e la cornificatrice nella buona della situazione (geniale).

Rupert Brooke - Uno dei famosi War Poets. Si potrebbero riassumere i temi trattati e toccati da lui con poche parole: viva l’Inghilterra, che bello morire per la madre patria!

Wilfred Owen - Se non fossero state pubblicate quasi contemporaneamente le poesie di Brooke e Owen, penserei che Owen abbia scritto la sua Dulce et decorum est ispirandosi al soldato ingenuo di Brooke. Owen ci ripete che non è affatto bello e dolce morire per la patria, anzi che proprio la guerra non è bella (grazie Orazio)

James Joyce - Potrei pubblicargli talmente tanti cuoricini da sembrare una checca mentre parlo di lui, ma James Joyce è il padre del romanzo moderno. Criticato da scrittori del “calibro” di Paul Coelho il quale non trova che l’Ulisse sia un capolavoro e da quella pereta della Woolf che scrisse Mrs Dalloway dopo aver concluso l’Ulisse, Joyce abbatte i vincoli della punteggiatura, è il primo ad aver utilizzato lo stream of consciousness e colui che ha incoraggiato Italo Svevo a continuare la sua carriera letteraria. Essendo cieco ad un occhio, decide di sviluppare altri sensi, come l’udito, utilizzando vari giochi di parole nelle sue opere (yes i say yes i will yes). Ovviamente è irlandese

Virginia Woolf - Pensava di suicidarsi ovunque, nell’acqua, con un sasso legato al collo, sul cesso, in libreria e così via. Dato che lei ha il controllo sullo scorrere del tempo e vuole dimostrare la sua superiorità a scrittori del calibro di Joyce pubblica diversi romanzi con diverse collocazioni temporali: abbiamo Mrs Dalloway ambientato in dodici ore, Gita al faro in diversi anni e l’Orlando in diversi secoli. Ogni suo romanzo può essere comunque confrontato con uno di Joyce (Mrs Dalloway\Ulisse, Le Onde\ Ritratto dell’artista da giovane)

George Orwell - Lui non è inglese, proviene dall’India e rispetta quindi il fatto che i migliori scrittori della letteratura inglese non nascono in Inghilterra. Socialista convinto, non approva assolutamente il regime dittatoriale di Stalin, il quale ha manipolato le idee di Lenin e Marx per i cazzi suoi. Critica aspramente il dittatore paragonandolo ad un maiale a cazzi dei suoi nella Fattoria degli animali (Napoleone). Il suo capolavoro resta 1984, nel quale viene narrato una storia ambientata in un mondo parallelo non tanto parallelo dove sono rimaste solo tre grandi superpotenze che lottano e sono in conflitto tra loro sempre. Non c’è lieto fine, perché il singolo proverà ad affrontare la dittatura del Big Brother, ma essendo solo finirà per uniformarsi alla massa.

Someone just decided to have a go at me at Birkenhead Central station cos I was on my phone and that our generation are ‘too distracted’ and didn’t like it when I explained that at least we can get unbias news straight from the source instead of right wing media. He then accused me of not knowing anything, tested me by asking me to name a poem. To which I replied Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen. But no that wasn’t enough! What’s the first line? What does the title mean? I gave him a brief summation and he accused me of only knowing slogans and told me to stop being so f**king argumentative cos I was answering his questions and saying to him what is it to you?? He was the one who decided to have a go at me when i was just sitting there. He only finally stopped when another older man told him to respect me.

Tag Thing

Rules: Answer the questions at the bottom, then make up 10 of your own for the next person to answer.

I was tagged by @catastrophicallyinlovewithbooks​ and @highladyofdreamcourt


1. What’s one language you wish you could speak? Mandarin
2. If you could go back in time to any period but without all the social issues and simply for the #aesthetic, what would you choose? Ancient Greece, I need to have tea with Sappho.
3. Do you have a favourite poem? Dulce et Decorum est - Wilfred Owen
4. What’s a random act of kindness you did or someone did for you? I paid for a strangers lunch the other day because she lost her bank card.
5. What’s a goal you have at the moment (long term or short term)? Complete my PhD
6. If you could live anywhere else in the world for some time where would you want to live and why? India. I think it would help with my work.
7. What’s your favourite piece of advice you’ve ever received? Don’t try to please everyone.
8. What book release are you really anticipating? Fools and Mortals - Bernard Cromwell
9. What do you do to make yourself feel better if you’re sad/angry/frustrated? Have a cup of tea and watch Mean Girls.
10. Tell me a random fact about yourself. I have an obsession with highlighting things.


1.) What are your top slash and femslash ships? Chaorian and Mesta

2.) If you had to be stuck in a 90’s or 80’s horror movie, which would you pick? Do you think you’d be a final girl? Evil Dead and not a chance 

3.) What are your favorite activities to do during the holidays? Reading and running.

4.) What’s your middle name? Avianna

5.) Hang gliding, wind surfing, or parasailing? Wind surfing.

6.) JURASSIC PARK APOCALYPSE IS UPON US!!! What is your game plan to survive the dinosaurs? Befriend the dinosaurs. Be one with the raptors.

7.) If you could dye your hair an unnatural color, what would you pick? Pastel blue. I tried it a few times it never looked right.

8.) List the top three meals you have never tried but would really love to.  Vietnamese Noodle Soup. Potato and Chickpea Stew (mine does not turn out right). Soba Stir fry.

9.) Are there any books/shows/movies/characters that everyone else seems to love but you just cannot? Rowan bloody Whitethorn.

10.) What would your ideal night home alone be like? I spend most nights alone and I just read.


I’ll tag @deziremyacotar @lronteeth @iamthebonecarver @unidentified-manatee @peregrynn @midnight-wonder and @songbirdsbooks for these questions.

1) What is your ideal career?

2) Who is your all time favourite book character?

3) Favourite Holiday? (i.e Christmas, Hanukkah etc.)

4) If you could spend a day doing anything you wanted what would you do?

5) What is your favourite colour and why?

6) What is the worst movie you’ve watched and why?

7) Favourite scene from any book?

8) Best compliment you’ve ever received?

9) Ideal of pizza topping?

10) If you could personally witness anything in history, what would you pick?

eosphora  asked:

Just followed u bc I saw your url on another post and oshit I love Wilfred owen I never see anything about him on tumblr ??? What's ur fave poem I'm a basic bitch it's dulce et decorum est

Well, i’m a basic bitch too because i’m eastern european and nobody knows here about wilfred, discovered him by total accident, i’d say my favourite is “disabled”. Glad you like my blog, i generally don’t talk THIS much about wilf, but i just finished hibberd’s book on him and i’m full of love for that sweet little man.

youtube

Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

read by Christopher Eccleston

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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.
—  –Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est, circa 1917-18

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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.


Photograph by Lt. John Warwick Brooke, near Arras, 24 March 1917. © IWM (Q 5100).

Poem by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918).

We must remember how they lived and how they died if we are ever to cure mankind of this sickness.

Today marks the 100th anniversary of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand – the event that triggered World War I and reshaped the world as we know it.

World War I produced a host of poets and authors who recorded its horrors in memorable words – if you haven’t read Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth yet, go get yourself a copy right now.

The poem that has always stuck with me, though, is Wilfred Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est

External image

For a real punch in the gut, here it is being read by Christopher Eccleston, as part of the UK Channel Four’s war remembrance series:

– Petra

Ben Whishaw reads
Dulce Et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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