Of Wilfred Owen

There was a simple poet boy
Who scratched his pen in empty joy
Wrote solemnly through the lonesome dark
Editing early with the lark

In his sunken chair, all cowed and glum
With ink and tea and fingers numb
He wrung the words right from his brain
He never wrote a good word again

You smug faced critics with kindling eye
Who cheer when writer’s words let fly
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where dreams and letters go *

* inspired by Siegfried Sassoon’s “Suicide In The Trenches”


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