Showing posts with label Wilfred Owen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wilfred Owen. Show all posts

Thursday, 27 September 2018

Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen 




Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on 18 March 1893 in Shropshire. He was a poet and a soldier. Wilfred Owen was the eldest son of the Thomas and Harriet Owen. He was an Anglican. During his school days, he was clever in studies. Wilfred passed the matriculation of the University of London. As the first career in life Wilfred worked as a teacher. In 1915, he was commissioned in the Manchester Regiment and was sent to the Front France at the end of same year. After periods at home, he returned to the front and paradoxically, was awarded the Military Cross.


Wilfred Owen was one of the leading poet of First World War. He wrote about war when he even at the battle field. Some of best works of him are,
·         Dulce et Decorum est
·         Insensibility
·         Anthem for Doomed Youth
·         Futility
·         Spring offensive
·         Strange Meeting    etc.


   
Wilfred Owen was killed in action shortly before the Armistice in November 1918. It was quite pathetic that Owen bade goodbye to his life at a very young age and he was killed one week before the Armistice, the agreement for the ceasefire was signed. After composing the poem, “Anthem for doomed youth” Wilfred Owen wrote a preface for it. It reads as follows:
 “My subject is war and the pity of war; The poetry is in the pity”
This is pathetic as well as ironic because the cruel war cost his life too.




Monday, 24 September 2018

Anthem For Doomed Youth


Anthem For Doomed Youth






What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons
No mockeries now for them, no prayers nor bells
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells
And bugles calling for them from sad shires
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes
The pallor of girl’s brows shall be their pall
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds
And each slow dusk a drawing- down of blinds


Wilfred Owen