Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen
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Wilfred Owen was born near Oswestry, Shropshire, where his father worked on the railway. He was educated at the Birkenhead Institute, Liverpool and Shrewsbury Technical College. He worked as a pupil-teacher in a poor country parish before a shortage of money forced him to drop his hopes of studying at the University of London and take up a teaching post in Bordeaux (1913). He was tutoring in the Pyrenees when war was declared and enlisted as shortly afterwards.

In 1917 he suffered severe concussion and 'trench-fever' whilst fighting on the Somme and spent a period recuperating at Craiglockart War Hospital, near Edinburgh. It was he that he met Siegfried Sassoon who read his poems,... more »

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Comments about Wilfred Owen

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  • its ya boy ali-a today lets click bait (9/14/2018 10:45:00 AM)

    wazzzz upppp dudududududududududududududududududududududududududududududud i have a gold gun in solid gold

  • cOol kiD (9/13/2018 8:39:00 AM)

    hello children i like potatoes

  • fortnite (9/11/2018 11:18:00 PM)

    fortnite dasnce mackelmore

  • fortnite (9/11/2018 11:18:00 PM)

    when madden turns into a irl battle royale

  • Mac Miller (9/11/2018 11:09:00 PM)

    haha i beat you. I died at 26

  • yo-yo (8/28/2018 5:05:00 AM)

    Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

  • old fruit (8/28/2018 4:58:00 AM)

    he is (was) very encouraging and talented

  • 6ix9ne (8/19/2018 6:59:00 PM)

    696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969

  • big energy (8/15/2018 8:42:00 PM)

    this fella has big energy

  • J sins (8/5/2018 6:13:00 AM)

    Ayyeee my dude Wilfred

Read all 87 comments »
Best Poem of Wilfred Owen

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 out 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.- ...

Read the full of Dulce Et Decorum Est

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