Youtor
Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen read by Tom OBedlam
>> YOUR LINK HERE: ___ http://youtube.com/watch?v=MpnCgb3DuXs
To save you looking, here's Kenneth Branaugh: • • Video = • (good, he reads dramatically and meaningfully, • but mispronounces loath = unwilling as loathe = hate ) • Dylan Thomas: • • Wilfred Owen — Strange Meeting (read... • ( He declaims, paying more attention to sound than meaning. • I never get tired of him. I used to play his records a lot.) • Ted Hughes: • • Video • (A good dramatic performance, but he can't sing the tune) • Joe Ball • • Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen recit... • (not bad at all, young fellow) • Hartistry • • Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen • (I've-never-seen-the script-before-and-I-don't understand-what-I'm-saying • he's got the style that makes Nigerian movies so charming • and a total disregard for metre.and rhyme) • It seemed that out of battle I escaped • Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped • Through granites which titanic wars had groined. • 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. • With a thousand pains 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, • 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. • 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 . . .
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