Friday, July 31, 2009

Today, in Literature class, I read this poem. Please enjoy:

Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.


Think how it wakes the seeds -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?


Wilfred Owen


Wilfred Owen is a war poet. From his poetry (which is really deep, I would be impressed if you can understand it at one sight), I would like to express my views, not analyse it though (as analysis can be found on the net anytime anywhere but my impressions and how it has affected me is unique). His point here is that life is futile. The waking up is futile. The next morning is futile .Because there are hundreds out there. And then of course, death is futile. I guess all of us will feel that life is futile at one point of our lives. And of course, all of us are facing wars be it physical or mental. The point here is, not every death is futile. Comparing the death to our failures in modern life, physically in a war, death is never futile. This is because the death of a person is better than the death of millions. Whenever a soldier goes out to fight, he should be aware that he is defending the lives of millions of civillians. And it is always good to sacrifice an army rather than a country. And with death, there is resurrection. In whatever religion you believe in, they would tell you the hopefuls of death. Death comes with resurrection, reincarnation etc but they all mean the same-- you are going to live again. Similarly, never just stop that but once again climb up and resurrect. Live your life with hope.
All of us would feel that life is pointless and frequently looking at my grades would pull me down too. But in life, I am glad that I am out of all of these torment and that I have resurrected. A ressurection is a miracle. Always continue to live with anticipation for the miracles of the next day.

Labels: Poetry Literature