Guest Author - Jordan McCollum

Can poetry and politics meet? Some argue that poetry should be divorced from politics; that real-world concerns somehow taint a piece of art for art's sake. It seems that much of patriotic and nationalistic poetry helps to reinforce the notion that mixing politics and poetry is a bad idea.

While there are some excellent patriotic poems, there is also a long and rich history of protest poetry, which blends art and politics. These works strive to make an impact on their readers, to persuade them to a point of view, often using vivid imagery.

One of the most famous poems of the twentieth century falls into this genre: "Dulce et Decorum Est." Written by Wilfred Owen, this poem is often studied in schools around the world. Owen compiled a volume of poetry to dispel the popular myth that war was glorious. He designated that the volume would be published in 1919, with the preface including the lines "My subject is War, and the pity of War. / The Poetry is in the pity."

However, his volume missed its publication date as Owen was killed just one week before the Armistice. The world remembers him best for his accounts of the war that took his life.

Dulce et 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 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.