Tuesday 315


Filed under: Poetry, Society — Tags: , — zundel @ pm

from “Exposure” (1918) by Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)

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?

My favorite stanza ever.
He was killed in action one week before the armistice.
Wilfred Owen in 1916

In memorial I have written a bibliography.
Having gotten the books off the shelf, I think I’ll go buy a bottle of beer and a snack, and spend the evening rereading the introductions.


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