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[Les Voix Perdues]

Iemand geïnteresseerd om eigen poëzie betreffende WO1 te verzamelen in een reeks berichtjes? Ik gooi de mijne online als aanmoediging... Kritiek zeer welkom!

Bart van LVP
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
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[Les Voix Perdues]

Niemandsland

In Niemandsland waait de wind
IJzige ogen staren staalhard naar de overkant
Voetrot ploegt diepe littekens
in wat eens akker was, thuis

En weer een laatste keer schrijft een soldaat
Zijn vrouw, zijn ongeboren kind, zijn wanhoop, weg
spoelt alle hoop
Wind vecht onpartijdig

Een sluipend groen dekt
het vermoeide staren

De wind strijdt zijn eigen strijd
en wint
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

Grauw

Grauwe nagels klauwen in de draad
Niets tussen hem en zijn vrouw
Tenzij andermans haat

Als alle hoop donker wordt en
Sterven

Maar net niet

Om toch leeg te bloeden in
Het krijsen van je vrouw
De doffe ogen van je kind

En het is daar dat je vindt
Hoe een mens een mens haat

Grauwe nagels klauwen in de draad
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

Dodengang

Ik bijt mij vast in de aarde
Zoek kracht waar enkel modder ligt

Vaders akker, grond
Geboortegrond
Sloten vol dromen

Een vertrouwdheid die bestond

Nu. Speelplein van
Dood en miserie

Desolaatheid
En leegheid van leven
Ik kan het niets voelen
Het sluipt in de graven
Maalt hoop tot gruis
Wat toen was

Thuis
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

Aan de verte


Het staren uit de ogen
Door het verste eind
De angst kruipt langs
Dichte aders als vaders’ zicht verdwijnt
Op verste verten

Paniek in je vecht
Klampt en hoop
Verdampt
Als adem in een barre winter

Want ginder, ten strijde
Loopt wie nooit had
Mogen gaan
Naar wat nooit had
Mogen zijn

Hem rest pijn
En lengten van tijden
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

De reisgezel

Een hand in de aarde
Het zoeken van zo weinig meer
Want wat blijft na het gaan der seizoenen
De papaver en dan de maden

Hier viel meer dan enkel de zaden

En hoe nu verder raken
En waar naar toe

Het verdriet wordt moe
Te wegen op de lege plek
Aan tafel
Koortsig te knagen
Aan de ziel
De reisgezel die niet
beviel
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Yvonne]

Wat intens mooi en dapper om dit te plaatsen, het is toch een stukje van je hart en ziel dat je blootgeeft.

Ik ben totaal niet creatief, maar ik hoop dat je topic anderen over de streep haalt hun creaties ook te posten.
_________________
Met hart en ziel
De enige echte

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[Les Voix Perdues]

waarom geen pakkende teksten van WO1 gerelateerde muziek??

Bart van LVP
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

En in wat eens een loopgraaf was
Nu een modder plas
Biedt het lijk van een soldaat
Nog het enig houvast

En rechtop tegen de wand
Een kameraad
Beide benen zijn verdwenen
De dood in zijn gelaat

En alleen de rug nog zichtbaar
Naast het smal plankier
Geduwd niet uitgegleden
De officier

En er schreeuwt er een voluit
Als hij de armen uitgespreid
De volle laag ontvangt
Het einde van zijn strijd

En het lichaam van een man
Hangt in prikkeldraad
Geraakt onder zijn helm
Gezicht zonder gelaat

Vertel van die verschrikking
Maar niet aan mij
Ik hoef niet meer te weten
Ik was erbij

En tegenover elkaar
Twee mannen in het veld
Wie het eerste steekt die leeft
Maar allebei sowieso een held

En ‘s nachts hoor je ze zingen
Vanuit de loopgraaf aan de overkant
Zo klinken dus de stemmen
Van de vijand

En doodstil op zijn rug
Bedekt onder een vlag
De man zonder benen
Die naar huis toe mag

Vertel van die verschrikking
Maar niet aan mij
Ik hoef niet meer te weten
Ik was erbij

En in de stad viert de soldaat feest
Dat hij het heeft gehaald
Terwijl in alle bedden van de stad
Voor de liefde wordt betaald

En veilig verder in de hoofdstad
Met het wijnglas in de hand
Toasten hoge hoeden heren
Op volk en vaderland

Vertel maar van die leugen
Maar niet aan mij
Ik hoef niet meer te weten
Ik was erbij

Ik vond daar mijn dood
En hoewel vergeten gegaan
Geeft het als precies kompas
In deze keer bestaan
Mijn richting aan

Vertel maar van die leugen
Maar niet aan mij
Ik hoef niet meer te weten
Ik was erbij
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

We came upon him sitting in the sun
Blinded by war, and left. And past the fence
There came young soldiers from the Hand and
Flower,
Asking advice of his experience.

And he said this, and that, and told them tales.
And all the nightmares of each empty head
Blew into air; then hearing us beside,
‘Poor chaps, how’d they know what it’s like?’
he said.

And we stood there, and watched him as he sat,
Turning his sockets where they went away,
Until it came to one of us to ask
‘And you’re – how old?”
‘Nineteen, the third of May.’
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

The silence woke us like the stopping of a clock
Dull senses failed to find a reason for the shock
Through blinking eyes we saw the icy grey of dawn
The guns had ceased and bird song heralded the morn

The shattered earth was frozen brittle whit with hoar
From out the trench a figure hesitant unsure
A cry for peace as stooping men once more walked tall
Like children born again running for the ball

We stand like first years at the opening days of school
A shared excitement, bad boys breaking all the rules
Bike shed smokers light up pass the bottle round
And hollow rhetoric dissolves on common ground

Scribbled pencil pocket notes can’t be denied
Nor faded prints of young men standing side by side
With smiling faces stumbling words and shaking hands
We made a playground in the rhyme of nomansland

And that’s the rhyme of nomansland
Grey and kaki hand in hand
To stop the lust for others land
Not to hate but understand
So conflict is forever banned
Yes that’s the rhyme of nomansland
That’s the rhyme of nomansland
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Yvonne]

In a foreign field he lay
lonely soldier unknown grave
on his dying words he prays
tell the world of Passchendaele

Relive all that he's been through
last communion of his soul
rust your bullets with his tears
let me tell you 'bout his years

Laying low in a blood filled trench
killing time 'til my very own death
on my face I can feel the falling rain
never see my friends again
in the smoke, in the mud and lead
smell of fear and feeling of dread
soon be time to go over the wall
rapid fire and the end of us all

Whistles, shouts and more gun fire
lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
be reunited with my dead friends soon
many soldiers eighteen years
drown in mud, no more tears
surely a war no one can win
killing time about to begin

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

The bodies of ours and our foes
the sea of death it overflows
in no man's land God only knows
into jaws of death we go...

Crucified as if on a cross
allied troops, they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
such before has never been seen
swear I heard the angels cry
pray to God no more may die
so that people know the truth
tell the tale of Passchendaele

Cruelty has a human heart
everyman does play his part
terror of the men we kill
the human heart is hungry still

I stand my ground for the very last time
gun is ready as I stand in line
nervous wait for the whistle to blow
rush of blood and over we go...

Blood is falling like the rain
its crimson cloak unveils again
the sound of guns can't hide their shame
and so we die in Passchendaele

Dodging shrapnel and barbed wire
running straight at cannon fire
running blind as I hold my breath
say a prayer symphony of death
as we charge the enemy lines
a burst of fire and we go down
I choke a cry but no one hears
feel the blood go down my throat

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

See my spirit on the wind
across the lines beyond the hill
friend and foe will meet again
those who died at Passchendaele

iron maiden.
_________________
Met hart en ziel
De enige echte

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[Les Voix Perdues]

aaaahh, The Maiden!

je kan steeds op je klassiekers rekenen, merk ik!

Nice one, Yvonne!

B
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Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[derwisj]

Ja, mooie song van maiden; te vinden op het album "dance of death" voor de geinteresseerden...
pascal

[wagner]

En dan nu een hele korte songtekst!:

Uniform
Dream cites freedom
Avow
Relent
Such suffering
Few certain

And here I lay

Titel: A life (1895-1915) - Mark Hollis (ex-lid van Talk Talk) van zijn titelloze solo album uit 1998.

Wager
_________________
Frieden macht Reichtum, Reichtum macht Übermut, Übermut macht Krieg. Krieg macht Armut, Armut macht Demut, Demut macht Frieden

[Yvonne]

An Irish Airman foresees his Death



I KNOW that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

W.B. Yeats (1865–1939). The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.
_________________
Met hart en ziel
De enige echte

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[Les Voix Perdues]

At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow’ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting same that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep an 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!
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

His wet white face and miserable eyes
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:
But hoarse and low an 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.
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

The philosophy in practice, leading to the truth, GHQ specifically condemned
We won’t fire if you don’t fire, a filthy German ruse, designed to get our iron will to bend.
But in the weeks to Christmas with no plans to implement
Our complexions pure from constant pads of mud
We very soon decided how the un’time should be spent
A day of war and lots of Christmas’ wood

So we’ll be living it up the best way that we can
On bully beef and biscuits and pots of Tickler’s jam
Mc Conagees and Bovril, it really will be grand
Doing the military two-step with the Bosh in nomansland.

It was Christmas day in nomansland our feet were feeling good
As we puffed on Jerry’s very big cigars
After marching here and marching there then standing in the mud
We vowed in future just to drive in cars.
We swapped our boots for badges, swapped cigarettes for brandy
Hats for caps we knew it wasn’t right.
And with the jumbled uniforms, we thought it was dandy
That no-one knew which side to go and fight…

So we’ll be living it up the best way that we can
On bully beef and biscuits and pots of Tickler’s jam
Mc Conagees and Bovril, it really will be grand
Doing the military two-step with the Bosh in nomansland.

I’ll be writing home to tell the wife but she’ll not find it funny
And I’ll doubt that she’ll believe the things I saw’re.
How we beat the hooded marble scribbidge, domino’s and rummy
And we forgot ‘d gone there for a war.
Spending christmas’ time with Jerry, it’s very strange to say
Despite the fact that no-one brought the goose
Was it dear less argumentative than relatives to stay
And trying to sort a family Christmas truce

So we’ll be living it up the best way that we can
On bully beef and biscuits and pots of Tickler’s jam
Mc Conagees and Bovril, it really will be grand
Doing the military two-step with the Bosh in nomansland.

Fritz and I in nomansland overcame our fear
And shared a hope for future peaceful time
We looked at family photographs and softly shed a tear
His family looked as horrible as mine.
So we fight for King or Kaiser, for fatherland or mother
And the Royal Family’s hope no-one will see
That Christmas toasting means they will be drinking to each other
But it’s no bother to the likes of u and me (and mud means scrips as well)

So we’ll be living it up the best way that we can
On bully beef and biscuits and pots of Tickler’s jam
Mc Conagees and Bovril, it really will be grand
Doing the military two-step with the Bosh in nomansland.
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

When this blasted war is over, oh, how happy I shall be
When I get my city clothes on, no more soldiering for me

No more church parades on Sunday, no more asking for a pass
I shall tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his ***

When this blasted war is over, oh, how happy I shall be
When I get my city clothes on, no more soldiering for me

I shall sound my own reveille, I shall make my own tattoo
No more NCOs to curse me, no more bleeding army stew

NCOs will all be navvies, privates ride in motorcars
NCOs will smoke the wood pipes, privates puff their big cigars

No more standing to entrenches, only one more church parade
No more shivering on the fire step, no more Ticklers Marmalade…
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Les Voix Perdues]

What will you do when the war is over, tender comrade
When we lay down our weary guns
When we return home to our wives and families
And look into the eyes of our sons
What will you say of the bond we had, tender comrade
Will you say that we were brave
As the shells fell all around us
Or that we wept and cried for our mothers
And cursed our fathers
For forgetting that all men are brothers

Will you say that we were heroes
Or that fear of dying among strangers
Tore our innocence and false shame away
And from that moment on deep in my heart i knew
That i would only give my life for love

Brothers in arms in each other arms
Was the only time that i was not afraid
What will you do when the war is over, tender comrade
When we cast off these khaki clothes
And go our separate ways
What will you say of the bond we had
Tender comrade
_________________
Les Voix Perdues: Vlaamse a capella muziek over WO1. Toneelproductie Known unto God.
0497/94.94.91 voor info

[Yvonne]

Een veld vol papavers

Hoe hij zich ingroef.
Hoe hij dan lag te luisteren
tot de zon de nevel doorboorde
met licht.

Hoe het dan spatte
uit duizend geweren,
hoe de vogels verbloedden
in het klaprozenrood.

Papavers. Een veld vol papavers.
Zoveel schrijnende wonden.
Zoveel gloeiende ogen.
Zoveel aarde ontwricht.

Nooit sprak mijn vader van dood.
Jaren later werd hij begraven
met de schreeuw in zijn keel
die zijn leven zozeer had verkort.

Papavers. Zoveel papavers.
Mijn ogen verkennen de Westhoek
met de angst om mijn vader
in elk beetje rood.

© Iris Van de Casteele
_________________
Met hart en ziel
De enige echte

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[Yvonne]

My name is Francis Tolliver. I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here,
I fought for King and country I love dear.
It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung.
The frozen field of France were still, no Christmas song was sung.
Our families back in England were toasting us that day,
their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lyin' with my mess-mates on the cold and rocky ground
when across
the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound.
Says I "Now listen up me boys", each soldier strained to hear
as one young German voice sang out so clear.
"He's singin' bloddy well you know", my partner says to me.
Soon one by one each German voice joi
ned in in harmony.
The cannons rested silent. The gas cloud rolled no more
as Christmas brought us respite from the war.
As soon as they were finished a reverent pause was spent.
'God rest ye merry, gentlemen' struck up some lads from Kent.
The next they sang was 'Stille Nacht". "Tis 'Silent Night'" says I
and in two toungues one song filled up that sky.
"There's someone commin' towards us" the front-line sentry cried.
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side.
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright
as he bravely strode, unarmed, into the night.
Then one by one on either side walked into no-mans-land
with neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand.
We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well
and in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell.
We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photgraphs from home
these sons and fathers far away from families of their own.
Young Sanders played his squeeze box and they had a violin
this
curious and unlikely band of men.
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more.
With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war.
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
"whose family have I fixed with
in my sights?"
It was Christmas in the trenches where the frost so bitter hung.
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung.
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war
had been crumbled and were gone for ever
more.
My name is Francis Tolliver. In Liverpool I dwell.
Each Christmas come since World War One I've learned it's lessons well.
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame
and on each end of the rifle we're the same.

-- John
McCutcheon "Christmas in the trenches"

This song is based on a true story from the front lines of World War I France that I've heard many times. According to a recent source, Ian Calhoun, a Scot, was the commanding officer of the British forces involved in the story. He was subsequently court-martialled for 'consorting with the enemy' and sentenced to death. Only George V spared him from that fate. -- John McCutcheon
_________________
Met hart en ziel
De enige echte

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[Yvonne]

HANGING FROM THE OLD BARBED WIRE

If you want to find the Sargeant,
I know where he is,
I know where he is,
I know where he is.
If you want to find the Sargeant,
I know where he is,
He's drunk on the dug-out floor.

cho: I saw him,
I saw him,
Drunk on the dug-out floor,
I saw him,
Drunk on the dug-out floor.

If you want to find the Captain
He's off on a seven-day leave

If you want to find the Colonel
He's pinning another medal on his chest

If you want the old battalion,
We know where they are,
We know where they are,
We know where they are.
If you want the old battalion,
We know where they are,
They're hangin' on the old barbed wire.

We've seen them,
We've seen them,
Hangin' on the old barbed wire,
We've seen them,
Hangin' on the old barbed wire.





.....

http://www.mudcat.org/@displaysong.cfm?SongID=2483
www.greatwar.nl
_________________
Met hart en ziel
De enige echte

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[Mark Pronk]

_________________
In flanders fields stoan de papavers rood..

[Yvonne]

Robert Graves - Goliath and David
(For D. C. T., Killed at Fricourt, March, 1916)

Yet once an earlier David took
Smooth pebbles from the brook:
Out between the lines he went
To that one-sided tournament,
A shepherd boy who stood out fine
And young to fight a Philistine
Clad all in brazen mail. He swears
That he’s killed lions, he’s killed bears,
And those that scorn the God of Zion
Shall perish so like bear or lion.
But … the historian of that fight
Had not the heart to tell it right.

Striding within javelin range,
Goliath marvels at this strange
Goodly-faced boy so proud of strength.
David’s clear eye measures the length;
With hand thrust back, he cramps one knee,
Poises a moment thoughtfully,
And hurls with a long vengeful swing.
The pebble, humming from the sling
Like a wild bee, flies a sure line
For the forehead of the Philistine;
Then … but there comes a brazen clink,
And quicker than a man can think
Goliath’s shield parries each cast.
Clang! clang! and clang! was David’s last.
Scorn blazes in the Giant’s eye,
Towering unhurt six cubits high.
Says foolish David, “Damn your shield!
And damn my sling! but I’ll not yield.”
He takes his staff of Mamre oak,
A knotted shepherd-staff that’s broke
The skull of many a wolf and fox
Come filching lambs from Jesse’s flocks.
Loud laughs Goliath, and that laugh
Can scatter chariots like blown chaff
To rout; but David, calm and brave,
Holds his ground, for God will save.
Steel crosses wood, a flash, and oh!
Shame for beauty’s overthrow! 40
(God’s eyes are dim, His ears are shut.)
One cruel backhand sabre-cut—
“I’m hit! I’m killed!” young David cries,
Throws blindly forward, chokes … and dies.
And look, spike-helmeted, grey, grim,
Goliath straddles over him.

http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Robert_Graves/17671
_________________
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De enige echte

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[Tom]

Mooi topic dit. Mooi werk ook Bart.
_________________
Wat we doen in 't leven, klinkt door tot in de eeuwigheid.