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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  • Parameswaran Nair Damodaran.Nair (10/20/2018 7:43:00 AM)

    War experience of the poet made him think about an underpath leading to the world of death. While passing through it he came across an enemy soldier who killed the soldier-poet with a bayonet. Though he was the enemy the poet extends a friendly attitude depicting his mindset against wars which are disastrous to humanity.

  • What? ? ? (10/18/2018 4:26:00 AM)

    To think brave men died to give the piles of dung commenting here freedom to express themselves, time to bring in euthanasia

  • student 13 (10/17/2018 6:34:00 PM)

    does anyone know any poems that support war? i need to compare for and against war poems for school and i cant find anything. will be greatly appreciated if someone can help :)

  • wilfred owen (10/12/2018 8:32:00 AM)

    u alright my G's. I'm not dead im a year 9 boi. LIke for free Vbucks
    M = Dog

  • Shrek (10/12/2018 8:09:00 AM)

    Join my religion mt fellow ogres/onions

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  • Ali-ayyyyyy (10/9/2018 3:23:00 AM)

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Read all 103 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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