I especially appreciate the intense imagery of Owen’s “Anthem for Doomed Youth,” one of his revealing judgments of war written but not published during his lifetime, his life cut short in battle before he could be recognized as one of the influential war poets. I won’t purport to have a precise explanation as to why, other than the continual curiosity of exploring the emotional toll of war, determined rhythm, and vivid diction of their poetry. The Great War Poets, especially Wilfred Owen, always fascinate me. Poem selected and commented on by Jenny Bagger Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,Īnd each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes What candles may be held to speed them all? The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells Īnd bugles calling for them from sad shires.
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-– No mockeries now for them no prayers nor bells
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
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