"Mental Cases" was written by the British poet and WWI soldier Wilfred Owen, who was killed in action in November 1918. As with much of Owen's poetry, "Mental Cases" focuses on the horrors of war, and in particular the ongoing psychological effects of wartime trauma. Owen based the poem on his own experiences in Edinburgh's Craiglockhart military hospital, where soldiers were often sent for recovery from "shell-shock" (now known as post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD). Using grotesque, visceral imagery, "Mental Cases" builds a picture of life as a kind of living hell for soldiers returning from the battlefield, their bodies and minds irrevocably ravaged by the horrors they witnessed.
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1Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
2Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
3Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
4Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
5Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic,
6Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
7Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
8Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
9Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
10—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
11Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
12Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
13Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
14Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
15Always they must see these things and hear them,
16Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
17Carnage incomparable and human squander
18Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
19Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
20Back into their brains, because on their sense
21Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
22Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
23—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
24Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
25—Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
26Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
27Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
28Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
1Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
2Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
3Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
4Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
5Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic,
6Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
7Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
8Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
9Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
10—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
11Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
12Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
13Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
14Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
15Always they must see these things and hear them,
16Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
17Carnage incomparable and human squander
18Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
19Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
20Back into their brains, because on their sense
21Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
22Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
23—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
24Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
25—Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
26Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
27Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
28Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain,
—but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
—Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
Wilfred Owen's Biography — Read more about the poet's life and work.
Bringing WWI to Life — Director Peter Jackson discusses his recent WWI film, They Shall Not Grow Old. Through technology, Jackson brings old war footage to vivid life.
"Good-bye to All That" — An excerpt from wartime writer Robert Graves's memoir about his experiences in WWI.
War Poetry Podcasts — Listen to this series of podcasts from the University of Oxford about various aspects of World War I poetry, including some excellent material about Wilfred Owen.
Shell-Shock — An informative article about what is now commonly referred to as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (or PTSD).
Poems in Response to Owen — A BBC show in which three contemporary poets respond to Wilfred Owen's poetry.