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Grijsland; Citizens of Death's Grey Land (Sassoon)

 
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RJ



Geregistreerd op: 13-4-2006
Berichten: 881
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BerichtGeplaatst: 13 Dec 2007 18:47    Onderwerp: Grijsland; Citizens of Death's Grey Land (Sassoon) Reageer met quote

Een tijdje terug via een forummember een prachtige cd opgestuurd gekregen.

Grijsland
Citizens of Death's Grey Land. Siegfried Sassoon
Vredesconcerten Passendale, 2003



Een 16 tal gedichten van Siegfried Sassoon zijn gezongen. Werkelijk een prachtige cd. Van het bekende nummer "Does it Matter" tot het wat minder bekende "Picture Show". Heerlijke muziek om te luisteren, eventueel met de gedichten erbij.

"In 'Grijsland' zet Wiet Van de Leest gedichten van Siegfried Sassoon op muziek.
Met : Vera Coomans (zang), Thomas Devos (zang, gitaar), Wiet Van de Leest (viool, piano), Claudine Steenackers (cello), Tom Theuns (zang, gitaar, harmonium) Louis Van de Leest (percussie), Herwig Scheck (contrabas, fretless bass)."

Een aanrader voor iedereen die van Sassoons gedichten houdt!

Tracklist:
1. Dreamers (3:27)
2. The Hero (2:33)
3. Died of Wounds (2:24)
4. They (2:08)
5. The Hawthorn Tree (1:35)
6. Attack (1:53)
7. Survivors (2:25)
8. In Barracks (3:07)
9. The One-Legged Man (1:53)
10. The Red Château At Courcelette (4:04)
11. To My Brother (2:15)
12. The Effect (3:38)
13. Does It Matter? (1:46)
14. On Passing The New Menin Gate (2:47)
15. Picture Show (2:10)
16. Memorial Tablet (3:22)
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RJ



Geregistreerd op: 13-4-2006
Berichten: 881
Woonplaats: Goes

BerichtGeplaatst: 13 Dec 2007 18:50    Onderwerp: Reageer met quote

Aangezien ik niet alle gedichten van Sassoon ken, heb ik alle gezongen gedichten opgezocht en in 1 bestand gezet, uitgeprint op klein formaat zodat ik in de trein mee kan lezen. Wilde het met jullie delen!

Siegfried Sassoon | Poems and Songs | Grijsland, Vredesconcerten Passendale, 2003

Dreamers

Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

The Hero

'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quivered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

Died of Wounds

His wet white face and miserable eyes
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:
But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell
His troubled voice: he did the business well.

The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining
And calling out for 'Dickie'. 'Curse the Wood!
'It's time to go. O Christ, and what's the good?
'We'll never take it, and it's always raining.'

I wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout,
'They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don't go out...
I fell asleep ... Next morning he was dead;
And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed.

They

The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'

The Hawthorn Tree

Not much to me is yonder lane
Where I go every day;
But when there’s been a shower of rain
And hedge-birds whistle gay,
I know my lad that’s out in France
With fearsome things to see
Would give his eyes for just one glance
At our white hawthorn tree.

Not much to me is yonder lane
Where he so longs to tread:
But when there’s been a shower of rain
I think I’ll never weep again
Until I’ve heard he’s dead.

Attack

At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!

Survivors

No doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they’re ‘longing to go out again,’—
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter’d all their pride…
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

In Barracks

The barrack-square, washed clean with rain,
Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold.
Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold,
March and wheel and march again.
The sun looks over the barrack gate,
Warm and white with glaring shine,
To watch the soldiers of the Line
That life has hired to fight with fate.

Fall out: the long parades are done.
Up comes the dark; down goes the sun.
The square is walled with windowed light.
Sleep well, you lusty Fusiliers;
Shut your brave eyes on sense and sight,
And banish from your dreamless ears
The bugle’s dying notes that say,
‘Another night; another day.’

The One-legged Man

Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald;
Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls;
A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stalked field,
And sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls.

And he’d come home again to find it more
Desirable than ever it was before.
How right it seemed that he should reach the span
Of comfortable years allowed to man!
Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife,
Safe with his wound, a citizen of life.
He hobbled blithely through the garden gate,
And thought: ‘Thank God they had to amputate!’

To My Brother

Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;
Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;
For we have made an end of all things base.
We are returning by the road we came.

Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,
And I am in the field where men must fight.
But in the gloom I see your laurell’d head
And through your victory I shall win the light.

The Effect

“The effect of our bombardment was terrific. One man
told me he had never seen so many dead before.”—War Correspondent.

“He’d never seen so many dead before.”
They sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore
And gasped and lugged his everlasting load
Of bombs along what once had been a road.
“How peaceful are the dead.”
Who put that silly gag in some one’s head?

“He’d never seen so many dead before.”
The lilting words danced up and down his brain,
While corpses jumped and capered in the rain.
No, no; he wouldn’t count them any more …
The dead have done with pain:
They’ve choked; they can’t come back to life again.

When Dick was killed last week he looked like that,
Flapping along the fire-step like a fish,
After the blazing crump had knocked him flat …
“How many dead? As many as ever you wish.
Don’t count ’em; they’re too many.
Who’ll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?”

Does it Matter?

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

On Passing the new Menin Gate

Who will remember, passing through this Gate1,
The unheroic Dead who fed the guns?
Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate,—
Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?

Crudely renewed, the Salient holds its own.
Paid are its dim defenders by this pomp;
Paid, with a pile of peace-complacent stone,
The armies who endured that sullen swamp.

Here was the world’s worst wound. And here with pride
‘Their name liveth for ever,’ the Gateway claims.
Was ever an immolation so belied
As these intolerably nameless names?
Well might the Dead who struggled in the slime
Rise and deride this sepulchre of crime.

Picture Show

And still they come and go: and this is all I know—
That from the gloom I watch an endless picture-show,
Where wild or listless faces flicker on their way,
With glad or grievous hearts I’ll never understand
Because Time spins so fast, and they’ve no time to stay
Beyond the moment’s gesture of a lifted hand.

And still, between the shadow and the blinding flame,
The brave despair of men flings onward, ever the same
As in those doom-lit years that wait them, and have been…
And life is just the picture dancing on a screen.

Memorial Tablet

Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby's scheme). I died in hell -

(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duckboards: so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light

At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare;
For, though low down upon the list, I'm there;
"In proud and glorious memory" ... that's my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he's never guessed.
I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?
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barthas



Geregistreerd op: 9-12-2005
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BerichtGeplaatst: 13 Dec 2007 19:35    Onderwerp: Reageer met quote

is deze cd in het iff museum te koop? lijkt me prachtig.
_________________
"Oh vaderland! Hoeveel misdaden zijn er in uw naam niet gepleegd!". uit: 'De Oorlogsdagboeken van Louis Barthas, tonnenmaker'.
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mrs Stan



Geregistreerd op: 2-7-2007
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BerichtGeplaatst: 13 Dec 2007 19:42    Onderwerp: Reageer met quote

Ik zag dat hij in elk geval bij Bol te koop is. Alleen jammer dat je niet wat stukjes kunt beluisteren want ik ben best wel nieuwgierig er naar geworden..

Greetz, Margreet Cool
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"Those boys were lions led by donkeys" quoted by our friend Mike about the victims of shot at dawn
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