I am totally in love with this poem. The reason? Actually, I can’t explain. I’ve met many people, who say, “Life is a battle; battle it out.”, but is it? Is life really a battle? Is that all our lives are about? This poet disagrees, and I agree with him.
War is a man-made thing. Man must take the responsibility and discredit for creating and cultivating the sense of war on innocent minds. Life, is never affected by war. Yes, there are many who have lost lives, loved ones and belongings because of war, but the real reason behind war is not war itself, but humans. War, in its nature is destructive, and many-a-time, so is man. The effects of war are really the consequences of mankind and its idiotic fancies.
Deep down, we all know the fact, but we prefer blaming it on war, for, some among us, still call it a necessity. If no one disturbs another, then where, in the world, is the need for war? The UN will be out of its job. So this poem made me think, and I realized, that when one person thinks and reflects from within, a lot of change can happen. After all, as Michael says,
“Take a look at yourself, and then make a change”
I think, it’s time for us to call off war. We need to stop battling among ourselves for petty reasons, and that small act will become the great change in the world, someday, hopefully.
Right to enlighten:
Well, in my opinion, there is no one better to portray the uselessness of war than a soldier himself. Owen was a soldier in the First World War. He wrote poems in the hospital when he was injured in war. He recovered and returned to war, never to return again. His poems are based on war and they reveal the fact that words can be powerfully haunting. His poem that hooked me and held me captive is titled as,
“Dulce est decorum est”
He was a mighty soldier, who could vividly create a scene of war before our very eyes. A brilliant read, definitely worth.
“Dulce est 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 disappointed shells that dropped 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,
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.*
*It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country