Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori

An article by Paul    2 Comments

I’m taken back to my second year at high school by the memory of a Wilfred Owen poem I want to share with you.

My English teacher at the time (Mr Howes) was a quiet spoken, well traveled man that lived on the high school grounds as a hostel master at the all boys school I attended.

I was only a day boy but I could tell this was a man dedicated to his profession, who had a profound love of his craft and the desire to do well by the children (and we were still kids) in his tuition.

The poem below is an example of the kind of material we covered in class that year and to this day it still resonates with me.

Yes we looked at the grammatical structure, talked about the author etc. but it was John Howes choice of subject material and his insight to expose us boys to this kind of material that I am grateful for in later life.

You see he challenged us to really think about the larger issues and meanings conveyed by such eloquent pieces as Owens.

By age 14 I was all to aware of the folly of war – and for that I’m very grateful to my former teacher.

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 gas-shells dropping softly 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
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 1893-1918