What poem?

Colour Name: Why did you choose this adjective?

Trench System

Water Logged Trenches

Trench Foot Result from the daily exposure to filthy, disease-filled water common in the bottom of trenches.

(1893-1918) poet, patriot, soldier, pacifist "My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity." Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) poet, patriot, soldier, pacifist

Wilfred Owen – A letter home "Dearest Mother, So thick is the smoke in this cellar that I can hardly see by a candle 12 inches away. And so thick are the inmates that I can hardly write for pokes, nudges, and jolts. On my left, the company commander snores on a bench. It is a great life. I am more oblivious than the less, dear mother, of the ghastly glimmering of the guns outside and the hollow crashing of the shells. I hope you are as warm as I am, soothed in your room as I am here. I am certain you could not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as surround us here. There is no danger down here - or if any, it will be well over before you read these line..."

Only a couple of days before the end of the war, Owen wrote this letter after he and his fellow soldiers took refuge from German shelling in the cellar of a destroyed house. They were all in high-spirits due to the speculation that the war would soon be over and the belief they might survive it. Owens was killed not long after finishing the letter.

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Iceberging You only see 10% of an Iceberg Iceberging You only see 10% of an Iceberg. You are only using 10% of a quote. It is time to dive! With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause, and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind’s nonchalance,

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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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?

POETRY PEEL Explore how Wilfred Owen presents his feelings about War in Exposure. Point – Explain the writer’s feelings about the topic and the poetic feature they use. Evidence – Use a relevant quote. Explanation – Two or more comments on the quote – focus on features and key words. Link – Reader reaction and evaluation – Compliment, criticise or feelings.

C grade One sentence explaining the writer’s view Relevant quote – not very interesting One comment on the quote explaining a key word. Reader reaction B grade Introduction of poetic technique Detailed explanation of the writer’s feelings Relevant quote – one or two features Two comments on the quote explaining two key words. Reader reaction Marking your POETRY PEEL paragraph A grade Introduction of poetic technique Two detailed explanations of the writer’s feelings The ‘perfect’ quote Two/Three comments on the quote explaining poetic features. Reader reaction Evaluation of the poetic technique

Explore how Wilfred Owen’s ideas about war are presented in Exposure. Wilfred Owen presents the idea that war is_________ in the poem exposure. An example of this is, “________________________________________________________.”The poet uses ___________ with the word(s) _________________ to suggest_____________________ _______________________________________________ _______________________________________________. Also the use of________________ emphasises_________ Owen’s use of___________ makes the reader feel_______ __________ because_______________________________ Extension: Write another PEEL focusing on another idea about war.

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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?

Exposure 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 memories 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,

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 memories of the salient… Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens

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 memories 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 fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

What is happening in the Stanza? What themes and ideas are presented? Discuss, make notes on and answer these questions, be prepared to feedback to the class. What is happening in the Stanza? What themes and ideas are presented? 3. What structural features are used and what is there effect? 4. What language features are used and what is there effect? 5. What tone and mood is created? 6. Personal Response to what you have read.

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Exposure 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 memories 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,

Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

How does Wilfred Owen present the idea of futility in the poem ‘Exposure’?

Front Row Exposure 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 memories 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,

Middle Row Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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?

Back Row 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Front Row Exposure 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 memories 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,

Back Row Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong fl owing 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?

Middle Row 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, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands, puckering foreheads crisp. The burying party, picks and shovels in the shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.