Exposure by Wilfred Owen - Full Poem + Explanation
Wilfred Owen’s ‘Exposure’ is such a true and devastating poem about the numbing reality of war. Here’s the poem itself, plus a brief explanation of the meaning of each line and stanza.
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Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us . . .
Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . .
Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
But nothing happens.
Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire,
Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
Northward, incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,
Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.
What are we doing here?
The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . .
We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.
Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army
Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of grey,
But nothing happens.
Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.
Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,
With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew,
We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,
But nothing happens.
Pale flakes with fingering stealth come feeling for our faces—
We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,
Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,
Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.
—Is it that we are dying?
Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires, glozed
With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;
For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;
Shutters and doors, all closed: on us the doors are closed,—
We turn back to our dying.
Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;
Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.
For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;
Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,
For love of God seems dying.
Tonight, this frost will fasten on this mud and us,
Shrivelling many hands, and puckering foreheads crisp.
The burying-party, picks and shovels in shaking grasp,
Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,
But nothing happens.
VOCABULARY
Merciless - without mercy, cruel and uncaring
To knive - to stab with a knife, in this case the wind is kniving the soldiers
Wearied - tired and exhausted
Drooping - dropping low, as in when a person’s head droops as they sleep
Flares - bright lights (that are used in war to signal a person’s position when shot into the sky)
Salient - an adjective meaning important or noticeable, but also ‘the salient’ in military terms is a part of the battlefield territory that projects into enemy territory. Soldiers in the salient are vulnerable and exposed to potential attacks from many sides.
Sentries - soldiers or entities that stand guard and keep watch
Gusts - small powerful bursts of wind
Agonies - pains, tortures
Brambles - hedge plants made of thorned branches, bearing blackberry fruit
Northward - towards the North
Incessantly - without stopping, continuously
Gunnery - the use of guns
Poignant - sharp, intense sadness or regret
To mass - to amass, to gather together
Melancholy - soft, thoughtful sadness
Successive - one after another, in succession
Sidelong - directed along one side of something
To flock - to gather together small parts or particles, e.g. birds flock together
Nonchalance - not caring, seeming calm and relaxed
Stealth - secretive and silent movement
Cringe - a movement of curling up in pain, cold or shame
Grassier ditches - holes that are more covered in grass
Drowse - start dropping off to sleep
Sun-dozed - made drowsy or sleepy by the sun
To fuss - to bother something or pay too much attention to it
To glimpse - to catch a small sight of something
Glozed - flattered or deceived, in this case the fires are almost burnt out and have deceptive embers still flickering in them, to making it look like they are warm even though they aren’t
Invincible - unbeatable
Not loath - not reluctant, willing to do something
Shrivelling - shrinking, withering
Puckering - coming up in wrinkles
Burying-party - group of people who have gathered to bury someone
SUMMARY
Stanza 1: Our heads are in pain because they are under constant pressure from the cruel icy winds that come from the East and attack us as if they were made of knives... We are exhausted but we stay awake because the night is silent and dangerous... our memory of what we’re supposed to be looking for is confused by the distracting low drooping lights in the distance.... Worried by silence, the watchmen whisper, they are curious, nervous, but nothing happens.
Stanza 2: While we’re watching, we hear the mad gusts of wind tugging on the barbed wire perimeters - it looks like the way in which dying men twitch in pain when they fall into them. To the North, there is a never ending rumble and flicker from the guns, far off in the distance as if it is a rumor of another war. What are we doing here?
Stanza 3: The sharp, sad misery of dawn begins to grow... it is another day that will be just as hard as the last; we only know that war keeps going, rain soaks and clouds grow heavy and sag when a storm is coming. Dawn gathers her army in the East, attacks us once more with rows and rows of grey - the rain, wind and snow - but nothing happens.
Stanza 4: Sudden flights of continuous bullets streak through the silence. These are less deadly to us than the cold air that shudders black with snow, with its snowflakes that flow along our ranks that gather, pause and renew, we watch these flakes drifting up and down in the uncaring wind, but nothing happens.
Stanza 5: Pale snowflakes creep up on us stealthily, as if they are frozen fingers that come feeling for our faces - we cringe in holes, retreating into our forgotten dreams. Dazed by the snow, we see deeper into our dreams and memories; we stare into the grassier ditches of our past, remembering times when we were lying in better places, living better lives than we do now. So we start dropping off to sleep, being made drowsy by the sun, imagining ourselves being covered in flowers that trickle where a blackbird is hopping around - Are we dying?
Stanza 6: Slowly our spirits (the ghosts of ourselves) drag us back to thoughts of our homes: we notice that there are sunken fires that have almost burned out, they are deceptively crusted with dark red embers that look like jewels; crickets gather around them and make jingling noises; for hours the innocent mice celebrate the warmth of these fires: the house is theirs; with its shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors of our old houses are closed (because there is probably no chance that we will return to them alive) - we turn back to our dying.
Stanza 7: We turn back to our dying since we believe that if we don’t go to war then kind and good fires won’t continue to burn; the sun (the light of God) smiles truly on child, or field, or fruit - though it doesn’t smile upon us. Our love turns to fear because we are fighting for God’s invincible spring (a brighter, better future with the innocence of new life). Therefore, we are not reluctant as we lie out here waiting, it is for this reason that we were born, because the love of God in this world seems to be dying and it is our job to rekindle it.
Stanza 8: Tonight, this frost will fasten on the mud and ourselves, it will shrivel our hands and make our foreheads wrinkly and crisp. The group of people who are burying the dead, with their picks and shovels shaking as they grasp them, they will pause as they look at the dead people’s faces and realise that they half-know them. The eyes of the dead men are frozen over, but nothing happens.
Thanks for reading!
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