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 distance 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

"Dulce Et Decorum Est" Wilfred Owen

Several weeks ago, late one night, I caught part of "Resurrection," which was the story of several "patients" at a British hospital during WWI. Among the group was the poet Wilfred Owen, who is "cured" at the hospital and returned to battle but was killed a few days before the Armistice. I became curious about Owen and did some net searches. And after a few days, I bought "The Collected Poems." And some where along the line I discovered he was gay.

His poems reflect a first-hand and claustrophobic knowledge of the trenches. I looked through several before selecting the one above. Although written in WWI, I thought it, just as well, could be the saga of troops in Gaul under Caesar or grunts in the swamps of Vietnam.

PAX!