It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Wilfred Owen's poem "Strange Meeting" starts in a dark tunnel where dead soldiers gather after leaving the battlefield. The speaker realizes it's like "Hell." The poem talks about the senseless destruction of war and how pointless it is in the modern world. Owen uses para rhyming couplets, a style he's known for. When he says, "Down some profound dull tunnel," he means the tunnel is carved from the hard stone created by big wars.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
People who were sleeping and burdened with troubles groaned. Some were stuck in deep thoughts or even dead. When I checked on them, one suddenly woke up and looked at me with sad recognition in his fixed eyes. He raised his hands in distress, as if trying to bless. And from his smile, I realized we were in a gloomy place – Hell.
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold"
I was scared a lot, but there was no blood or gun sounds. I told my friend there's no reason to be sad here. He said the only reason is the wasted years and hopelessness. His life was like mine; he searched for wild beauty that doesn't stay calm in eyes or hair. It mocks time, and if it makes you sad, it does it richer than here. My laughter could have made many people happy, and my tears could have left something behind, but that's gone now. I mean the untold truth.
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
War is sad, war is a pity.
Now men are okay with what we took.
Or they're not okay, they fight and die.
They'll be fast, like a tiger.
No one will leave their group, even if nations move backward.
I had courage and secrets.
I had wisdom and control.
I didn't join the world going the wrong way.
When lots of blood stopped their war machines,
I would clean them with clean water.
I'd share deep truths, not tainted ones.
I'd share my spirit fully,
but not through wounds or the dirt of war.
Men suffered even without physical wounds on their foreheads.
“I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now. . . .”
"I'm the person you fought, my friend. I recognized you in the darkness when you looked angrily at me yesterday as you attacked and ended my life. I defended myself, but my hands felt unwilling and cold. Now, let's rest."
