Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) - Dulce et Decorum Est / But I Was looking at the permanent Stars

Wilfred Owen was tragically killed 100 years ago to the day - just seven days before peace was declared in 1918.The centenary of the death of First World War poet Wilfred Owen has been marked at his graveside with the sound of a bugle he took from the battlefield.
The instrument, taken from a dead German soldier, was played in public for the first time at the ceremony in Ors, northern France, today..
Elizabeth Owen, widow of his nephew Peter, attended the “moving” ceremony in Ors communal cemetery today, following a dawn visit to the site of the soldier’s death along the Sambre-Oise canal.
French locals and members of the Wilfred Owen Association gathered to hear The Last Post played on a bugle Owen took from a dead German soldier during the First World War. Some of Owen’s poetry, focused on the brutal reality of war, was also recited. His final letter home was read and wreaths were laid in his memory in a service Fiona MacDonald of the Wilfred Owen Association, described as really moving.
“There is just something really special about being here and hearing Owen’s bugle played for the first time in public.”
 

 The bugle taken from the battlefield by Wilfred Owen, held by Grace Freeman from the Wilfred Owen Association

Musician Heather Madeira Ni said she was grateful to have the opportunity to play the instrument, which had never been sounded in public before, on such a historic occasion.
She said: “The bugle is such a piece of history and a great chance for me to get to know Owen and his poetry. It’s such an important part of British history.
“The more I learn about Wilfred Owen, the more grateful I am to have this opportunity.”
The Oswestry-born soldier was killed on November 4 1918 during the battle to cross the Sambre-Oise canal at Ors, just seven days before peace was declared,
He wrote about the bugle, referring to having got some “loot”, in a letter to his brother in 1917.
Born in Oswestry in 1893, Owen lived in Shrewsbury for much of his life and a blue plaque marks the site of his former home at 69 Monkmoor Road.
A life-size bronze statue of the poet was unveiled in Oswestry's Cae Glas Park two weeks ago, while numerous events are planned across Shropshire over the coming weeks to celebrate Owen's life.A specially commissioned Wilfred Owen poetry bench will be unveiled at Shrewsbury Library on Monday.

 Of all the poets to die in the first World War, the fate of  Wilfred  Owen may have been the most cruel, if only for his family. He survived until the last week, but was “killed while giving a hand with some duckboards” [wooden walkways] near Cambrai, northern Trance. The news took exactly a week to travel home to Shrewsbury when his  parents heard of William’s death on the 11^th of November, that most significant of days, heightening the tragedy of his loss all the more.

Back in 1914, the then 21-year-old Owen had been in no hurry to fight. He enlisted late the following year and only in mid-1916 reached the front.The horrors of the western front soon confronted him. On April 1, 1917, near the town of St. Quentin, Owen led his platoon through an artillery barrage to the German trenches, only to discover when they arrived that the enemy had already withdrawn. Severely shaken and disoriented by the bombardment, Owen  was soon blown into the air by a shell, landing on what remained of a dead comrade. He also spent days trapped in a trench, surrounded by corpses, and returned to his base camp confused and stammering. A doctor diagnosed shell-shock, a new term used to describe the physical and/or psychological damage suffered by soldiers in combat. Though his commanding officer was skeptical, Owen was sent to a French hospital and subsequently returned to Britain, where he was checked into the Craiglockhart War Hospital for Neurasthenic Officers near Edinburgh .
 He had been writing for some time at this point and what he saw of the war convinced him that this was no glorious conflict but one of sheer terror for those unlucky enough to experience it.  His writings were hard-hitting, telling the reader exactly how a soldier lived and died in this most brutal of environments.  His most famous poems included ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’ and ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’.

During a lengthy convalescence, he met fellow war poet Siegfried Sassoon, the most influential friend of his short life. Under Sassoon’s guidance, he would write his best verse, which was bitterly critical of war, with none of the patriotic fervour of earlier front-line poets.If  Sassoon had had his way, Owen would never have returned to the trenches. The former once threatened to “stab [him] in the leg” if he tried.  But in the summer of 1918, Owen went back to war without telling him. In early October, he helped storm enemy positions at Joncourt, earning a Military Cross for his courage: something he had craved – paradoxically – as justification for the poetry. He didn’t live to receive the honour. 

Despite Wilfred Owen‘s prodigious writing, only five poems were ever published in his lifetime – probably because of his strong anti-war sentiment, which would not have been in line with British policy at the time.A promise made by Sassoon while in Edinburgh was fulfilled as an edited collection of his poignant war poems was published  postumously in 1920, thus establishing the name of William Owen among the country’s greatest poets.

Events are planned around the world on November 11, to mark Armistice Day – 100 years after the end of the First World War.

Dulce et Decorum Est - 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 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,

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.


But I Was looking at the permanent Stars - Wilfred Owen


Bugles sang, saddening the evening air,
And bugles answered, sorrowful to hear.

Voices of boys were by the river-side.
Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.
The shadow of the morrow weighed on men.

Voices of old despondency resigned,
Bowed by the shadow of the morrow, slept.

( ) dying tone
Of receding voices that will not return.
The wailing of the high far-travelling shells
And the deep cursing of the provoking ( )

The monstrous anger of our taciturn guns.
The majesty of the insults of their mouths.