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WILFRED OWEN • Wilfred Owen is an English war veteran famous for his poems that eloquently portrays the true horror of war. These poems are acclaimed not only because of the vivid descriptions of war but also because of the powerful articulation of the anger and disgust Owen felt towards war’s inhumane nature. • Owen was born on March 18 1893 in Oswestry, Shrophire. • He began writing poetry when he was a teenager. • Had to work to pay for his own school fees to enter university, because his results were not outstanding enough for him to obtain a scholarship
He enlisted on his own, wanting to prevent the loss of the English Language and to protect his country. • He enlisted into the army in 1915, and in 1916 was then comissioned as a second liutenant in the Manchester Regiment. • In 1917, he was diagnosed with shell shock and was sent to Craiglockhart Hospital. Here he met fellow poet Siegfried Sassoon. • Poetry was therapy to Owen and it helped him treat his shellshock. • Owen was awarded the military cross for bravery when he decided to return to France in August 1918. • He returned to war as a leader with a bigger role in directing his men due to his previous experience in the front line. • He was killed in action on November 4, 1918, exactly one week before the armistice. He was only 25 years old.
Exposure is a poem about the cruel reality of war - not only its butchery, but also the severe conditions it takes place in, and the unerring tension that is constantly present. This poem describes the winter of 1917, one of the worst winters of WWI. The poem demonstrates how in this season the real enemy of the soldiers was the cold and icy temperatures. During this icy period, more soldiers died due to exposure rather than by being killed by the opposition. In the cold winter, soldiers’ suffer not only intensified physical pain but also mental pain which depicts the mental pressures of trench warfare. The winter makes the soldiers more likely to wish their deaths than to live. There is nothing heroic nor honorable in being in a war. War is harsh, brutal and careless. MESSAGE
STANZA 1 and 2 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us… Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent… Low, drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient… Worried by our silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous But nothing happens Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire, Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. What are we doing here?
STANZA 3 and 4 The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow ... We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, But nothing happens. Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance, But nothing happens.
STANZA 5 and 6 Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces— We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. Is it that we are dying? Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; For hours the innaocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed— We turn back to our dying.
STANZA 7 and 8 Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid; Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, For love of God seems dying. To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.
STRUCTURE The story of the poem runs chronologically according to time. It shows the everyday life in the front-line trenches. It starts in the night when the soldiers “…keep awake because the night is silent” (st. 1), then to dawn (st. 3), through the day (st. 4-7) and then back to night at the burial (st. 8). This structure allows us audience to understand the difficulty of life in the trenches, especially during winter.
