"Analysis of a Theme" "Argument"

This photograph (stonework from the front of the Ieper memorial building)

reminded me of the poem “Dulce et Decorum est”, by Wilfred Owen. The

statues themselves stand inlaid into the side of the old church, standing in

alcoves. Around them (as seen to the right) stand statues of kings, princes,

knights, bishops, etc. Dulce et Decorum est reminded me of this picture

because in the poem, Owen writes about the horrors of war and how they

were told “Dulce et Decorum est por patria mori”, “It is sweet and glorious to

die for one’s county”. The poem emphasises how there is no honour in war

and this picture shows soldiers in French, British and Belgian uniforms carved

into stone, glorified as the old kings and knights standing next to them.

This picture is especially memorable because, to me, it gives us a clear picture

of how the people before the war actually thought, that they would be given

monuments in their honour and their praises would be sung for valour and

others would remember them. Well, as the statues ironically tell, they

certainly got that: Monuments for the hundreds who lay dead, anonymous,

forgotten by all but those who were close to them. That is why the statues have generic faces, because although we

honour their deaths, none deserve to be glorified. For there is no glory in war.

Dulce et Decorum Est WILFRED OWEN

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 gas-shells dropping softly 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.