The songs I had are withered Or vanished clean, Yet there are bright tracks where I have been, And there grow flowers For others delight. Think well, O singer, Soon comes night. Ivor Bertie Gurney Composer and Poet A celebrant of the particular and a lover and maker of beauty 28/8/1890-26/12/1937 The only WWI poet to have served as a private, writing music and poetry often under bombardment. Gloucestershire born, raised and loyal. A crackshot despite poor eyesight, by the time he was allowed in, after the slaughter on the western front, his spectacles were no longer an impediment to active service. he killed, but loathed to do so, his target practice as a youth having only ever been the flotsam of the Severn. Prodigously talented, what wonders I might perform, were I only well. Undoubtedly suffered ptsd and chronic mustard gas injury, last 15 years of his life incarcerated for insanity (most likely schizophrenia). A fervent walker in earlier life, he refused to excercise in Dartford, homesick for his treasured green spaces, of which he wrote in detail. He eventually succumbed to tuberculosis. In the last decade of his tortured life, the music and poetry ceased, along with the many letters begging to be honourably allowed to commit voluntary euthanasia, cursing his ill-fortune at having survived what so very many did not.
Posted on: Wed, 09 Apr 2014 18:04:39 +0000
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