An Ode to Wilfred Owen in the style of ‘Dulce et decorum est’
18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918
Knives carve off limbs, flesh torn, dangling, serrated,
As skin mangled from claws on Christmas Turkey,
In war cries, angry men’s lives are narrated,
The line between liberation and invasion is ever murky,
Boys with blood sullied hands grip hair on severed heads,
Those that could have painted portraits,
Coloured from a pallet of the slaughtered instead,
Fed on fables; a prophesied paradise awaits,
We grow fat, in our ivory towers,
Safe from the stranger that bubbles fat and skin,
Like butter in a pan, from drone showers,
In war, does anybody win?
Greed dances between missiles of falling tears,
Precision strikes in the heart of our society,
What have we learned in one hundred years?
Wilfreds woes live on in propriety,
Eyes rattle and roll, jaws hang without screams,
Bodies rot, go putrid in a stupefied sun,
Pierced and hung, displayed with no head to dream,
In ancient squares, where civilisation begun,
Babylon had fallen - long before Saddam in Firdos Square,
Lines drawn on maps separate nations in the sand,
To say we have not learnt one thing, would be unfair,
We’ve learnt of it, how to better wash our hands,
Politicians bleed lies through crooked lips,
Contorted through years of kissing corrupt feet,
The only thing which is true, is found in deaths cold grip,
But, for distant sounds of innocence echoed on the ruined streets,
Still, children’s lives are worth less than ammo,
The old lie: which never dies, the same old story,
May only foreign babies be born to know;
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Written for dVerses Poetics: Poems to a Poet.
Original poem by © Darius the Mate
What is life without community? I would love to connect with other nicecissists out there. Reach out, let me know what you think in the comments, and of course, give me a follow for more – nice!
Playing with Words
nicecissist 
This is incredibly potent! I am especially moved by; “We grow fat, in our ivory towers,/Safe from the stranger that bubbles fat and skin,/Like butter in a pan, from drone showers,/In war, does anybody win?”
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Sanaa
LikeLike
So descriptive it’s almost hard to read but in amongst the gore I like how you included the roads not taken of those that could have painted portraits
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Laura.
I tried to reflect the intensity of the original in style, with my choice of words. I agree, it’s graphic, thanks for getting through it!
LikeLike
Intense. Graphic. Vicious. Honest to its core. Your images and use of commas felt like daggers to the heart. A powerful ode to war poets and the wrenching they survived (or not).
LikeLiked by 1 person
Many thanks my dear writer, that’s a rich review and one taken with great appreciation.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You captured the feeling the war poets must have had in the trenches, Darius, and describing the horrors of war in the opening lines is an excellent hook, one that Owen employed. The simile ‘as skin mangled from claws on Christmas Turkey’ is particularly effective, reminding us that Christmas for those men was terrible, and so many of them lost their faith as well as their lives. These lines are particularly vivid:
‘Boys with blood sullied hands grip hair on severed heads,
Those that could have painted portraits,
Coloured from a pallet of the slaughtered instead’.
The reminder that ‘we grow fat, in our ivory towers’ is also powerful, as is the question ‘What have we learned in one hundred years?’, and the quote at the end brings us full circle.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much Kim! Through all the horrors, may we learn… one day
LikeLiked by 1 person
Dark, tactile, and as Ingrid said – visceral. Strong writing here Darius, drags you right in shuddering and amazed.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Rob
LikeLike
The truth in all of its graphic hideousness.
“Those that could have painted portraits,
Coloured from a pallet of the slaughtered instead,”
Only a poet from the trenches could write this.
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is a visceral tribute and those end lines especially resonated. I also liked:
‘Greed dances between missiles of falling tears,
Precision strikes in the heart of our society,
What have we learned in one hundred years?’
What indeed? War is big business for a select few, and innocent people pay the price.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Your poem is gripping / hits hard / I might turn the last line around and ask ~~ is it sweet and fitting to die for the homeland?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Greatly appreciated Helen.
I think it’s clear the answer has always been no! 😲
LikeLike
Nicely written tribute; I really like the depth of the details you included.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you T.J.S.
LikeLiked by 1 person