One hundred years after his death, Owen remains perhaps the single most tragic figure in the history of poet. He stands as a stark reminder of the sheer waste of the first World War, and a paean to the modern ideals of individuality and self-expression. Utterly heartbreaking, no matter how many times I read him.

Technically, it's 2.5 out of 5 stars.

For the most part, it was an okay read, although there was a somberness to it.

Rate 4.5 - Dulce et decorum is one of my all time favourite poems and when I seen a book with more of Owens poems I couldn't pass it up. These poems are so beautiful and the ones written about war are extremely interesting. Beautiful writer and is a book I know I will reach for again to reread some poems.

There are some absolutely marvellous, chilling lines in these poems, which is what I had remembered from studying Owen in sixth form. And, of course, he is a war poet who actually managed to die in the war. So: a war hero and a poetry hero. However, what I had forgotten (or failed to appreciate because I was also young and pretentious when I first encountered these poems) is that most of the lines, indeed most of the poems, are simply not very good. It’s all - even the haunting, wonderful phrases - highly derivative.

I also came away from the experience of reading this book not liking Owen himself very much. Of course I’m sorry that he was harrowed and then slaughtered by World War I. I’m glad that he was empathetic and humane about the men he led getting mutilated, driven mad & killed. But he also has an undeserved, aggrandising view of himself as being a great artist and poet, made of more worthy stuff than most people. Plus there are the sensual love poems written to children, the erotic fetishising of corpses and the misogyny.

But some memorable humdingers of phrases which deserve to live on as they do. The good bits are beautifully bitter and cynical, angry and sad.

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Not as evocative as Sassoon's poetry, but still good.

“This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them.
Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything’s about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War.
Above all I am not concerned with Poetry.
My subject is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.”

truly a harrowing read, shaped around the horrors of war, Owen will forever be one of my favourite poets, I couldn’t recommend more.

Finally after several months I finished this gem. I love English poetry and Especially Wilfred Owen has caught my eye. Now that I finally read his last and best poems I can say: this man knows how to write tragedy, and I mean it as a compliment. When he writes about sacrifice you suffer along and when he writes about beauty your find yourself smiling. Yet he is incredibly rich in word and styles which made it a hard read for me sometimes since I'm not a native English speaker (that's why only 4 stars)

The metatextual poignancy of Wilfred Owen’s poems is unparalleled. When countless young men from across the world, typically those from the lower-classes, were used as the folly of empires, their blood soiling the battered fields of Europe, the most powerful act of resistance was poetry. His poetry is an example of literary exceptionalism despite all odds, but the solitude of this anthology is a tragedy when considering what Owen could have been had he not been killed in action just one week before the war ended. Owen’s poems reflect the plethora of emotions experienced by those at the front, from horror, to pride, to boredom, to fear, to exhaustion and, ultimately, the crushing reality of their own futility. Nevertheless, in capturing these emotions through these beautiful verses, Owen strikes a piercing blow at the British establishment; this collection gives voice, and thus power, to the countless men used as the pawns of kings and empires.

As he fiercely puts in ‘Apologia pro Poemate meo’ (meaning ‘in defence of my poetry’):
“You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears. You are not worth their merriment.”

Here is what you need to know about Wilfred Owen: he died too soon.

Owen was twenty-five years old when he was killed in action, exactly one week before the signing of the Armistice would end the war. This means that all of his poems only fill up one 192-page collection (unfinished bits and pieces included) and it is not enough.

The first sixty pages or so are taken up by poems Owen wrote in his youth. Most of these are stylistic exercises, practice runs as he was trying to find his own voice. They are charming enough, but still very derivative (drink every time you see a Keats reference!). However, there is a tangible change in style and quality when Owen joins the army, especially after one particularly traumatic experience in 1916 that got him diagnosed with shell shock and sent to Edinburgh for treatment.

In the two years he spent at the Craiglockhart war hospital, Owen became acquainted with other poets and artists and began to bloom artistically. He was encouraged to write as part of his therapy and he befriended one of his heroes, Siegfried Sassoon, who had been "diagnosed" with "shell shock" as well after writing a controversial letter that condemned the war effort and the government's motives. Their relationship was life-changing for Owen and his work shows an increase in motivation and confidence: the poems become more personal, more honest, and far more painful to read (in a good way). In the two years (!) leading up to his death he wrote some of the most powerful poetry you will ever read, stanzas that will leave you staring at the ceiling, contemplating history, "glory," and human nature in general.

Two years of heart-wrenching poetry is not enough.

Not even close.

Also check out Benjamin Britten's Requiem where music melds to poetry the senselessness of war. "Was it for this the clay grew tall?" Not for death.

Owen died too young.

Haunting and moving but still the understanding one can get from this book will never come close to what his generation suffered. It is not an exaggeration that for Europe and the commonwealth around the world, a whole Generation was sacrificed upon the alter of pride. If you ever visit the Al Alimein(sp?)cemetery on the North coast of Egypt you will notice that an entire generation is missing. What Owen’s saw and described on paper gives the average civilian or even soldier of other wars a recognition that WWI, living in the trenches for four years, was the worst tragedy faced by service men on all sides during the twentieth century. I Like the story of the “Parable of the Old Men and the young.” I think it expresses well the feeling of Europeans and Commonwealth countries.

Parable of the Old Men and the young

So Abram Rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
As they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretched forth the knife to slay his son,
When LO! And angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in the thicket by its horns:
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

It speaks for them all.