Roughly three years ago, I read a poem by the war poet, Wilfred Owen. The First World War stirred much anxiety in the then modern generation. I feel a similar "stirring" amongst my own generation. As a result of the war, people began to rethink their ideas about justice in the world. The war poets sought to make the tragedy of this gruesome war a reality for those who were not dying in the trenches or suffering in stark hospitals. Warfare is brutal and civilians everywhere, are in many ways, unprepared to process the undeserving cruelties that come along with it. Perhaps the same can be said of suffering in a general sense. Wilfred Owen's poem "Disabled" is pretty forceful in drawing our attention away from the complexities of some international conflict, toward an intense focus on one man's particular deprivation. I see deprivation too and would like to re-visit his words because of the feeling within myself and perhaps you too of bewildering loss and the unforgiving awareness of life's incongruity. Our life, like war, lures us into loss.
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * *
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands;
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
* * *
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
* * *
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and may be, too, to please his Meg;
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
* * *
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
* * *
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
What sensory detail! I feel connected to this soldier's experience because our anxiety is shared. The poem is forthright--if war does not end a soldier's life, it will nevertheless render him impaired, ineffective, and incapable. the title and start of that first line transplants me into that institution and inside the life story of a war veteran who is just waiting to die. Cold and disgusted in his own colorless skin, war has taken more from this man than his legs. My battle has taken more from me than my breasts. Placed beside this visual dismemberment are the sounds of youth and vitality ringing through the park. I hear those sounds too. It is interesting that Owen doesn;t describe the the boys as running through the park, as the juxtaposition would seem too heavily contrived and would in a sense weaken the following paradox, "saddening like a hymn." I love hymns. I love them because they are joyful songs that when I sing them every Sunday I am able to life my eyes above the temporal suffering to the eternal and blessed. The voices aid the soldier in briefly transcending the confines of his "wheeled chair," and yet, they simultaneously transfix him in the earthly reality of his own condition. I feel that intensity too.
I remember, like this soldier, the early evenings of youth; full of delight, newness, anticipation, and beauty. How unexpected to long for what was not so long ago. Owen's language is unexpected...
"About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovlier as the air grew dim,"
Towns do not swing. Lamps do not bud. Blue trees? Shouldn't that be girls DANCED lovlier? And air has no color variation. There is a certain expectation in the arrangement of words in language...instead of words that seem likely, Owen uses irrational constructions. Such syntactical manipulation helps me connect to this disabled soldier's probable recognition that, like the turn of a phrase, life does not unfold as expected. I feel that incongruity too.
The theme of loss and the finality of that loss is everywhere present. The soldier was too young to even enlist himself in in the war which is why "Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years" and we are told he was more youthful in looks even than in age, but "Now he is old." Within a single year, the soldier is emptied of youth and has lost "half his lifetime." His color and vitality has been spilt not for the pride of accomplishment in his own athletic pursuits, but for some war effort. Now, "after the matches" there is no admiration or rowdy cheers as he is lifted onto his teammates' shoulders, just nurses to quietly lift him onto his bed. Where there was once community as a young athletic victor, and a sense of Esprit de corps in joing the military fight, there is now a private world of solitude, "Why don't they come?" I feel that solitude too.
So why did he join the fight? "Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts, that's why; and may be, too, to please his Meg; Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts He asked to join. He didn't have to beg." It is the youthful mindset that does not contemplate the nobility or necessity of the international conflict or even weighing in on his own possible destruction, "no fears of Fear came yet." The recruit wants to show off his legs in the handsome uniform and thinks he may attract the attention of girls. How innocently and candidly is he begging for life to begin, to be considered a man, to be looked up to, to carry a weapon, to have a task, to make some money, and maybe even be someone's hero. Do you feel pity for him? I do, because as I hear his naive optimism, the kind that comes with youth, I have forseen the agonizing reality of a war-torn young man. How hard it is to lose everything when we think we have nothing to lose? The vibrant girls are not filled with admiration for the soldier...their eyes are drawn to "the strong men." the closest the soldier comes to feeling in anyway "heroic" is when "a solemn man who brought him fruits" thanks him. What a disparity between what was sought and what was gained! The futility of living while having lost all that makes life meanignful is authentic and unforgettable, but I don't feel that disparity. I say with the Psalmist, "And those who know Your name will put their trust in You; For You, Lord, have not forsaken those who seek You." I like Owen's poem. It isn't mere comment, but an experience I have explored. He isn't asking me to do something; to fix it; to make it all better. After all, the peom itself offers no true understanding of why the innocent suffer great loss; just that they do. I don't expect to find such explanantions here. We all feel cut off at the knees if we're honest with ourselves. I know my foundational assumptions about truth, beauty, and rationality are often "disabled" as well. But unlike the soldier, I am not left incapacitated in a wheeled chair of broken illusions or weakened by the reality that life, as illustrated in war, is not always as glorious as it is grievous. I am awaiting a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
