The Show

+ Show full styles

V4.5+

The Show
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
By Wilfred Edward Salter Owen
18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918

Author Notes:
The Show by Wilfred Owen is a surreal and harrowing meditation on the horrors of war, rendered through dreamlike imagery and visceral metaphor. In this poem, Owen strips away romantic notions of battle, revealing instead a landscape of suffering that speaks to the shared fragility and haunting beauty of human life.

My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
As unremembering how I rose or why,
And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,
Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,
And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.

Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,
There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.
It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs
Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.

By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped
Round myriad warts that might be little hills.

From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,
And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.

(And smell came up from those foul openings
As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)

On dithering feet upgathered, more and more,
Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,
All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.

Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns,
Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.

I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten,
I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.

Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean,
I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.

And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.
And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further,
Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,
And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.

2530/7500

℗ Copyright 2025 by Midknightoil Music, All rights reserved. ☢ -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 🧶 - Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/3RHtX1sMkxhBIXBxdqftsK 📻 - YouTube Music: https://music.youtube.com/channel/UCuW6er98D210fb6pIcp9jpA 🍎 - Apple Music: https://music.apple.com/us/artist/midknightoil-music/1771715875 ✖ - X Artist: https://x.com/Midknightoil_M 📽 - TikTok Artist: https://www.tiktok.com/@midknightoil 📸 - Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/midknightoil_music/ 🎧 - Amazon Music: https://music.amazon.com/artists/B0DJCJXCL2/midknightoil-music 💜 - Deezer: https://www.deezer.com/us/artist/284428631 🌐 - Website: https://www.thrownexception.com The Show -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- By Wilfred Edward Salter Owen 18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918 Author Notes: The Show by Wilfred Owen is a surreal and harrowing meditation on the horrors of war, rendered through dreamlike imagery and visceral metaphor. In this poem, Owen strips away romantic notions of battle, revealing instead a landscape of suffering that speaks to the shared fragility and haunting beauty of human life. My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, As unremembering how I rose or why, And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques. Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed. By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped Round myriad warts that might be little hills. From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes. (And smell came up from those foul openings As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.) On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, All migrants from green fields, intent on mire. Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten. I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten. Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.

0/500