Dulce et Decorum Est van Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Dulce et Decorum Est
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 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,
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.
Ook al is deze foto in scene gezet, de werkelijkheid was niet minder bizar: het gasmasker was aan het front onmisbaar geworden. Zelfs paarden en honden droegen het bij een gasaanval.
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Dubbel gebogen, als oude bedelaars onder hun lasten
Op x-benen en hoestend als oude wijven,
vloekten we ons een weg door slijk
Tot we onze rug keerden naar de niet aflatende vuurpijlen
En begonnen terug te sjokken naar onze verre rustplaats
Mannen marcheerden slapend. Velen waren hun laarzen kwijt
Maar hinkten verder, tot bloedens. We raakten allemaal lam, allemaal blind;
Dronken van uitputting; doof, zelfs voor de sirenes
Waarschuwend voor gasbommen die stil achter ons neervielen.
Gas! Gas! Snel, jongens! Opgejaagd rommelend
Aan onhandige gasmaskers, net op tijd.
Maar iemand stond nog te schreeuwen en struikelde
En spartelde als een man in het vuur of onder de lijm
Vaag, door nevelslierten en in dikke groene schijn
Als in een groene zee, zag ik hem verdrinken.
In al mijn dromen, stort hij zich op mij,
Gulpend, stikkend, verzuipend, en ik kijk hulpeloos toe.
Als ook jij in verstikkende dromen eens kon opstappen
Achter de kar waarop wij hem gooiden
En het wit van zijn ogen in zijn gezicht zien draaien
Zijn hangende mond, als van een duivel ziek van zonde
En ook jij bij elke schok, het bloed kon horen
Opborrelend uit zijn door schuim bezoedelde longen,
Smerig als een kanker, bitter als etter
Van walgelijk oude, ongeneeslijke wonden in onschuldige monden,
Mijn vriend, dan zou je niet met zoveel ijver,
Aan kinderen snakkend naar wanhopige roem,
De oude leugen vertellen: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
1917 in many ways was the pivotal year in his life, although it was to prove to be his penultimate. In January he was posted to France and saw his first action in which he and his men were forced to hold a flooded dug-out in no-man’s land for fifty hours whilst under heavy bombardment. In March he was injured with concussion but returned to the front-line in April. In May he was caught in a shell-explosion and when his battalion was eventually relieved he was diagnosed as having shell-shock (‘neurasthenia’). He was evacuated to England and on June 26th he arrived at Craiglockhart War Hospital near Edinburgh.
Had Owen not arrived at the hospital at that time one wonders what might have happened to his literary career, for it was here that he met Siegfried Sassoon who was also a patient. Sassoon already had a reputation as a poet and after an awkward introduction he agreed to look over Owen’s poems. As well as encouraging Owen to continue, he introduced him to such literary figures as Robert Graves (a friend of Sassoon’s) which in turn, after his release from hospital, allowed Owen to mix with such luminaries as Arnold Bennett and H. G. Wells.
The period in Craiglockhart, and the early part of 1918, was in many ways his most creative, and he wrote many of the poems for which he is remembered today. In June 1918 he rejoined his regiment at Scarborough and then in August he returned to France. He was awarded the Military Cross for bravery at Amiens, but was killed on the 4th November whilst attempting to lead his men across the Sambre canal at Ors. The news of his death reached his parents on November 11th 1918, the day of the armistice.
Bron: oucs.ox.ac.uk/ltg/projects/jtap/tutorials/intro/owen
