It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;
And by his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the fluies made moan.
"Strange, friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said the other, "Save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something has been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now…
Notes
this poem was found after Owen's death amongst his papers
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this dissects and lays bare the waste and utter uselessness of war. the fact that the author died in battle makes the waste all the more glaring..that a soldier could still retain enough sensitivities to pen such a heart tugging piece says much about the indestructibility of the human spirit.
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From guest ren (contact)
This poem, i believe, gives us an insight into Owen's personal beliefs. I guess that this meeting, if the soldier has escaped to this place we find to be hell, he has been thrown unconscious or even dead in the fight. again, like in the poem 'futility' there is almost a sense of suspended time, on a completely separate plain from that which holds the harsh reality of war. we read this poem not so long ago for A level literature. i like this poem particularly because it almost relates exactly to my own beliefs in war, as well as being a powerful piece where the message is incredibly clear. The suggestion that the ghost to which he is speaking might have been his enemy is significant - it wasnt one side or the other that suffered. ALL of them suffered, and owen was particularly good at making this point heard. -
This is scary. The soldier escaping from the battle finds himself in a tunnel full of sleeping men, One of them awakes, staring at the new arrival with a smile of recognition, it is now that the runaway soldier realises they are all dead, in hell but safe from the battle.
The two men speak of the waste of their lives, seemingly thrown away during a war that will continue on for some time. The new man killed the second man the day before, they were enemies then but now it's time to sleep.
So powerful a poem – the vision of a tunnel full of sleeping (dead) men two men who yesterday were enemies now will sleep their final sleep together.
Once again 'Pity of War' phrase is used in this poem too. The manuscript of this poem(can be seen in 'The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry – J Silkin page 191.
Von
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I preformed this peice in high school for prose and poetry. This is one of my all time favorite poems and World War One poetry is some of the most impacting poetry ever written. This was one of the worst wars ever experienced (in terms of the style of battle) and the feelings and observation of these war poets blows me away everytime I read them.
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Woodworm - you were quite right - it is now corrected. Thank You
Von -
LINE OMITTED!
Line 10 is: By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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9/10
Damn great piece. Such angst, and sadness in each line. It just grabs you and chokes your throat and makes you read each line thoroughly.
Just a great piece here.
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