Poem of the Day: Dulce et Decorum Est

by Wilfred Owen

Following yesterday's A Martian Sends a Postcard Home, and in the run-up to needing to read a lot of new poetry for a module next year (starting mid-January), I've decided to post a poem every day (you may've guessed that from the title). I don't have any selection criteria at the minute -- old, new, long, short, familiar, obscure, anything goes. Though I have no desire to spend a long time typing anything up (unless it's really good) and don't want to violate any copyrights, so it'll just be stuff I find available online -- so mostly old stuff then, I guess.

As today is Remembrance Day, this year the 90th anniversary of the end of the First World War, it seems most appropriate to include a poem by one of the war poets. There's a lot of notable poetry from this particular war, much of which I studied at A-level, and this is one of the most memorable -- very well know, but for good reason.

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 floundering 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.

For those who don't know, the Latin phrase at the end was a common mantra at the time (originally written by Roman poet Horace), which translates as, "It is sweet and noble to die for one's country".

(Trying to find a version of this to post here, I noticed several variations. I went with what I considered to be a moderately definitive one, but am prepared to be corrected.)