It was rare for a year to go by without spending some time with probably the greatest anti-war poem ever composed. Written by Wilfrid Owen, a soldier who died in the Great War shortly before its end, Dulce Et Decorum Est is a searing condemnation of all the countries and all the individuals over the centuries who have trumpeted the propaganda about the nobility and necessity of war. Given the Harper regime's attempts during its tenure to boost the profile of the Canadian military, pursue a 'muscular' foreign policy and trap our young soldiers in an unwinnable war that cost far too many their lives and their health, Owen's work has never seemed more relevant.
Describing the horrific effects of a gas attack, the poem lays down imagery far too vivid to easily forget:
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.
NOTES: Latin phrase is from the Roman poet Horace: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”
