It was pointed out to me this morning (by a practiced reader of poetry of all shapes, vintages, and sizes) that the poem I included in my last post was kind of obscure.
It sure was! That's how you know it's good. ;)
But seriously, the gist is all you need. And the gist is simply this:
People who are dead to feeling might seem blessed, because they get to avoid the worst kinds of hurt. (In the context of WWI, the terror of those relentless, screaming bombs; the writhing agony of fallen comrades, etc. In our own context -- well, you name it.)
But people who are dead to feeling are really cursed, not only because they miss out on intense joy as well as intense pain (you can't drop one without dropping the other), but also because they lose the greatest chance life gives us human beings -- the chance to walk in other people's shoes. To love and to be loved. To recognize the gift of life, because we also know the sadness of loss.
That, Readers, is all.
This post made me laugh, because I *almost* posted something on the last Wilfred Owen post about how when I was a moody, depressed teenager, my father would hand me books of WWI poets and tell me to suck it up. So by the time we read Dulce Et Decorum Est in high school, I had a hipster's view of Owen -- although, of course, it's impossible to really understand him (and the others) until you've suffered a certain amount (or more).
ReplyDeleteThen I thought that would be too braggy, so I didn't. And now I'm smiling because somewhere near Boston, I have a spiritual twin sister.