A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers) Sit on the bed. Im blind, and three parts shell. Be careful; cant shake hands now; never shall. Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes. My fingers fidget like ten idle brats. I tried to peg out soldierly,-no use! One dies of war like any old disease. This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. I have my medals?-Discs to make eyes close. My glorious ribbons?-Ripped from my own back In scarlet shreds. (Thats for your poetry book.) A short life and a merry one, my buck! We used to say wed hate to live dead-old,- Yet now...Id willingly be puffy, bald, And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose Little Id ever teach a son, but hitting, Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting. Well, thats what I learnt,-that, and making money. Your fifty years ahead seem none too many? Tell me how long Ive got? God! For one year To help myself to nothing more than air! One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long? Spring wind would work its own way to my lung, And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. My servants lamed, but listen how he shouts! When Im lugged out, hell still be good for that. Here in this mummy-case, you know, Ive thought How well I might have swept his floors for ever. Id ask no nights off when the bustles over, Enjoying so the dirt. Whos prejudiced Against a grimed hand when his owns quite dust, Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn, Less warm than dust that mixes with arms tan? Id love to be a sweep, now, black as Town, Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? O Life, Life, let me breathe,-a dug-out rat! Not worse than ours the lives rats lead- Nosing along at night down some safe rut, They find a shell-proof home before they rot. Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death. Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth. I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned: The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now. Pushing up daisies is their creed, you know. To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap, For all the usefulness there is in soap. Dyou think the Boche will ever stew man-soup? Some day, no doubt, if...Friend, be very sure I shall be better off with plants that share More peaceably the meadow and the shower. Soft rains will touch me,-as they could touch once, And nothing but the sun shall make me ware. Your guns may crash around me. Ill not hear; Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince. Dont take my souls poor comfort for your jest. Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But heres the things best left at home with friends. My souls a little grief, grappling your chest, To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds. Carry my crying spirit till its weaned To do without what blood remained these wounds. Wilfred Owen
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 18:40:07 +0000
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