P1+Poetry+Literature+of+the+War

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From World War IFrom World War I
Poetry and literature were one of the few things soldiers were able to do during their days and nights at war. Many soldiers became famous for their writing such as Wilfred Owen who wrote //“Dulce et Decomrum Est.”//, John McCrae who wrote //“In Flanders Fields”//, and Erich Remarque who wrote //“All Quiet on the Western Front”.//

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
 * John McCrae:** Born in 1872 in Ontario Canada. He was more then a poet, and was in fact a doctor, soldier, author, and artist. A year later after he was out of the war he published in Punch magazine. This poem commemorates the deaths of thousands of young men who died in Flanders during the grueling battles there. It was an inspiring and was used widely as a recruiting tool, inspiring other young men to join the Army. Legend has it that he was inspired by seeing the blood-red poppies blooming in the fields where many of his friends had died. In 1918 McCrae died at the age of 46. Most of the time most men died during that war from a bullet or bomb. But for his case from a disease. Pneumonia, in his case.
 * Poem**: **In Flanders Fields**

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

**Wilfred Owen**: Born in 1893 in Oswestry (United Kingdom). He moved to Bordeaux (France) in 1913, as a teacher of English in the Berlitz School of Languages. One year later he was a private teacher in a prosperous family in the Pyrenees. He enlisted in the Artists' Rifles on October 21 1915. There followed 14 months of training in England. He was drafted to France in 1917 and this was the worst war ever because it was in the winter. His total war experience will be rather short only four months. In August 1918, after his friend, the other Great War Poet, Siegfried Sassoon, had been severely injured and sent back to England, Owen returned to France. War was still as horrid as before. The butchery was ended on 11th November 1918 at 11 o'clock. Seven days before Owen had been killed in one of the last vain battles of this war.

  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 disappointed shells that dropped behind.
 * Poem**: **Dulce Et Decorum Est**

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering 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 107338 158499 114829
 * Group Member**: