He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
Notes
Letter from Robert Graves to Wilfred Owen
[Circa 17 October 1917]
3rd Garr. Batt., R.W.F., Kinmel Park,
Rhy, N. Wales
Do you know, Owen, that's a damn fine poem of yours, that 'Disabled.' Really damn fine!
So good the general sound and weight of the words that the occasional metrical outrages are most surprising. It's like seeing a golfer drive onto the green in one and then use a cleek instead of a putter, & hole out in twelve.
For instance you have a foot too much in
In the old days before he gave away his knees
& in He wasn't bothered much by Huns or crimes or guilts
& They cheered him home but not as they would cheer a goal
& Now he will spend a few sick years in institutes
There is an occasional jingle
Voices of boys
& Voices of play and pleasure after day
And an occasional cliché
Girls glanced lovelier
scanty suits of grey
I wouldn't worry to metion all this if it wasn't for my violent pleasure at some of the lines like the one about the 'solemn man who brought him fruits' & the 'jewelled hilts of daggers in plaid socks' & the 'Bloodsmear down his leg after the matches'.
Owen, you have seen things; you are a poet; but you're a very careless one at present. One can't put in too many syllables into a line & say 'Oh, it's all right. That's my way of writing poetry'. One has to follow the rules of the meter one adopts. Make new meters by all means, but one must observe the rules where they are laid down by a custom of centuries. A painter or musician has no greater task in mastering his colours or his musical modes & harmonies, than a poet.
It's the devil of a sweat for him to get to know the value of his rhymes, rhythms or sentiments. But I have no doubt at all that if you turned seriously to writing, you could obtain Parnassus in no time while I'm still struggling on the knees of that stubborn peak.
Till then, good luck in the good work. Yours Robert Graves.
Love to Sassoon.
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Comments
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2 1/2 years on since I read this poem and still holds a profound quality for me. Reading it now I think perhaps he gained the inspiration when he was in Craiglochart Hospital peior to being sent back to the front where he was killed.
Perhaps too, Eric bogle read this prior to writing his most famous song. -
Here is a young man, legless, confined to a wheelchair, no arms with which to control the chair, his injuries so terrible his athletic body that the young girls used to look at no longer brings him admiring looks but eyes averting from his poor wrecked body. He no longer wants to be in the public view but has to wait for a nurse to wheel him back to bed.
He volunteered (underage) for one of the Scottish regiments because as so many young men did then it was 'the right thing to do'.
This poem certainly plays on the emotions of the reader. We are witness to the reaction of the crowds after a victorious football match compared to the sharp contrast of his return home from the front as a terribly wounded soldier.
This poem, written in plain simple language so we, the reader can almost read his disjointed thoughts and imagine the years that lay ahead of this boy once so healthy and now so dependant on others for even the most basic of his daily living activities.
Owen used the phrase 'The Pity of War' many times, perhaps this is the poem that reflects the authors feelings.
Von -
9/10
The first stanza is so sad, and heartbreaking the next stanza holds much light on the memory of the visuals you laid out from the first stanza. Just great so far.
The last two stanza's remind me of some the Vietnam vets and how people treated them when they came home.
Such a powerful piece this is, ridden with angst, and rightly so.
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