Australians I guess still remember that war. Erick Bogle published "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda" in 1971:

"And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where my legs used to be,
And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To weep, and to mourn, and to pity."

The song to my mind pretty effectively contrasts the world of Wilfred Owen with the world of Jessie Pope.

https://youtu.be/cZqN1glz4JY

Absolutely John. For my money the definitive version of that song was recorded by The Pogues in 1985.

Yes, and off a great album...
I saw The Pogues in concert in the late 80s, at Hammersmith Palais. It was a memorable evening.

Yes, 'Rum, Sodomy and the Lash'! Fantastic album! Possibly their best amid some stiff competition. I've seen them three times at various points in their colourful career. Always good to find a fan!

Anyway. Back to the trenches...

Gregory, thank you for introducing me to Rupert Brooke's "The Solider." Yes, I'm ashamed to say I didn't know it. I imagine generations of young Englishmen and Englishwomen memorizing and reciting it in class. That is patriotism. Puts me to shame.

WOW, Mark! That is fascinating. Thanks for that.

(Wish I'd known it when I was blathering about Owen's use of the second person in the poem here some time ago, but live and learn.)

"Dulce et decorum est" usually omits the "dedication" these days. It's worth a footnote regarding the "you" of the poem, but the poem is much bigger than a personal rebuke. Sassoon wisely removed the mention of Pope or "a certain poetess" from his 1921 edition of Owens's poems.

https://archive.org/details/poemswilf00owenuoft

Brooke's "The Soldier" is the last of a five-sonnet sequence titled "1914." It captures the naive enthusiasm at the outbreak of the war that was shared by many (including Owen in an early poem).

http://www.rupertbrooke.com/poems/1914/

Larkin's poem captures this sense of innocence and blind patriotism that seemed general among the combatant countries at the beginning. It didn't last very long.

Some years ago I wrote a five-sonnet sequence titled "1916" about Brooke and the general disillusionment that had set in by then. I won't post it here, but I'll be happy to share it with anyone who wants to see it.

rsgwynn1@cs.com

I wrote it while teaching a course in WWI literature. Fussell's book was a great inspiration. Fussell also edited a collection of Sassoon's poetry and prose that I highly recommend.

Incidentally, Brooke became something of a poster boy for the British war effort, and he has taken his lumps over the years for "The Soldier." He was a young poet of considerable skill, but he never saw any real combat. He died shortly before the beginning of the Dardanelles Campaign, which probably would have opened his eyes to the reality of trenches, faulty command, and the machine gun. Someone once said that if he had survived he might have become the first socialist Prime Minister. Churchill wrote his obituary for the Times.

Rupert Brooke... In Grantchester, a village up the Cam from Cambridge, the church clock stands permanently at ten to three, or did last time I looked at it.

Julie, glad you found that interesting!

Hi Sam. I agree the poem is much bigger, and the 'you' of the poem much more universal, than any feelings of personal distaste at Pope's poetry that may have prompted Owen to write it. Still, fascinating nonetheless to see how a poem that has become such an icon began with such a personal, small-scale rebuke.

Interestingly, it was Sassoon who more frequently cast a caustic eye over the jingoism of the 'smug faced' crowds back in Blighty, as seen in these two poems:

Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.


'Blighters'

The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
“We’re sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!”

I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag-time tunes, or “Home, sweet Home,”
And there'd be no more jokes in Music-halls
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.