As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the South
And I was thinking of the laughters
Of my love's mouth.
As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the West
And I was thinking of the quiet
Of my love's breast.
As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the North
And I was thinking of the countries
Black with wrath.
As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the East
And I could think no more for pity
Of man and beast.
The wind was blowing from the South
And I was thinking of the laughters
Of my love's mouth.
As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the West
And I was thinking of the quiet
Of my love's breast.
As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the North
And I was thinking of the countries
Black with wrath.
As I was lying on Black Stitchel
The wind was blowing from the East
And I could think no more for pity
Of man and beast.
envoyé par Bernart Bartleby - 24/4/2014 - 11:09
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Versi di Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962), nella raccolta “Whin” pubblicata nel 1918.
Poesia messa in musica da Ivor Gurney (1890-1937), poeta e compositore (“A First Volume of Ten Songs, no. 3”, 1938) e poi anche da John Jeffreys (1927-2010) talentuoso compositore che negli anni 70, purtroppo, distrusse gran parte dei suoi lavori. Solo in parte furono in seguito ricostruiti a partire da alcune registrazioni.
Una riflessione sulla bellezza dell’amore e sull’orrore della guerra.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson fu ufficiale di sua maestà, ma non combattè in prima linea e neppure lasciò mai l’Inghilterra (infatti questa poesia è ambientata nella brughiera del suo Northumberland nativo, in una località chiamata Black Stitchel). Eppure gran parte delle sue poesie di quel periodo descrivono le atrocità della guerra dal punto di vista del soldato semplice mandato a crepare. Anche dopo la guerra Gibson mantenne nelle sue opere un’attenzione particolare per coloro che, anche in tempo di pace, sono troppo spesso i vinti, i fregati, comunque vada…
Invece il compositore e poeta Ivor Gurney la Grande Guerra la provò sulla propria pelle. Ne uscì gravemente ferito nel corpo e soprattutto nell’anima, tanto da trascorre in ospedali psichiatrici gli anni successivi, fino alla morte avvenuta per tubercolosi nel 1937.