Birdsong

Birdsong is a novel by Sebastian Faulks first published by Hutchinson in 1993. It begins in 1910 by introducing Stephen Wraysford. He is a young Englishman on assignment for a textile factory in Amiens, France. He is a lodger in the home of Rene and Isabelle Azier, an unhappily married couple.

The novel then jumps forward to 1916 where Stephen is an infantryman in WW1, based in Flanders. The narrative introduces Stephen’s relationships with his commanding officer, Captain Gray, an engineer Michael Weir, and a tunneller named Jack Firebrace. Faulks goes into the details of these men’s lives to depict the horrors of tunnels, gas and enduring the daily prospect of death. The close bonds that the men form under these extreme conditions are also revealed. Faulks portrays the Battle of the Somme through Stephen’s experience from dawn and its pre-battle anxiety to dusk and the 60,000 British casualties. Stephen, almost defeated by the realities of war, is encouraged to fight for survival by the stoic Captain Gray. Stephen also keeps a coded journal.

Birdsong then follows the story of Elizabeth who finds the diaries in the 1970s and attempts to decode them.

Some books stay with one for years after reading them and the detailed description of the tension in the anticipation of the attacks, the horror of being trapped in tunnels thirty feet underground in no man's land, the life and death in the trenches and the psychological effect of the brutality of war on soldiers certainly did for me. This was particularly the case with the stories of the tunnellers. I couldn’t put this book down.

I would put one proviso in this and that is the first hundred pages based in Amiens. Whenever I have read the book again it is very tempting to skim read this section. And I do. I can see why 1910 France needs to be evoked to set up the horrors that follow. But not a hundred pages.

The novel was a success, with international impact and attention. The hardback print-run, first issued in 1993, sold 14,000 copies. The novel featured in many "Best of the Year lists" in the United Kingdom during 1993. Subsequently, it has become one of the most checked-out works from British libraries.

It is taught at school and university on both English and History syllabuses; it has sold more than two million copies in the United Kingdom and three million worldwide; it has been used at Sandhurst to instruct young officers in the realities of warfare; in polls it is regularly voted one of the nation’s favourite books.

Birdsong was adapted as a radio drama in 1997, and as a stage play in 2010. In 2012 it was adapted as a two-part television drama for the BBC. On 1st July 2020, a virtual production of Birdsong was streamed online to mark the 104th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme. It is told using video technology, live performance, sound design and music, all woven together. The cast performed in full costume, with digitally designed scenes and lighting.

Why the book is called Birdsong can be interpreted in many ways. However, from a personal point of view and I haven’t seen or heard the adaptations, I really don’t believe that the experiences gained while reading the book can be portrayed in any other form than by the written word.

This poem is part of a trilogy and was written for a nurse who went to a war.

Going

And she’s gone.
I can’t tell you where
or when she’ll be back.
But here’s a few clues.
Here’s her ski boots,
there’s her woollen sweater,
here’s the scarf I bought in Prague
and there’s the ballgown
I’ve to take to the cleaners,
precise instructions attached.
Well you don’t need a ballgown
when you’re off to fight in the wars.

Not that she’s fighting.
She’s there for the wounded,
she’ll strip the bloody clothing
from any bloody skin
and stripping an assault rifle
was taught as a precaution.
A precaution against what?
I know against what.
All those jerks finding themselves,
shooting into manhood,
those guys know what they want
and it’s not TLC from a blonde.

I wandered into the kitchen
getting a feel for emptiness,
putting her mug away,
it’s only a few months.
Finding themselves for god’s sake,
and then finding her,
ten quid in a tin hat lottery,
she just won’t get it.
And then I found the envelope,
under the phone,
the last Will and Testament,
left when I left her alone.

First published by Acumen in May 2008

Terry Q.

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Blues - I have one connotation and need the other.

Blues noun

plural noun: the blues

1. 1.

   melancholic music of black American folk origin, typically in a twelve-bar sequence. It developed in the rural southern US towards the end of the 19th century, finding a wider audience in the 1940s, as blacks migrated to the cities. This urban blues gave rise to rhythm and blues and rock and roll.

   • a piece of blues music.
2. 2.

   Formal

   feelings of melancholy, sadness, or depression, .

   "she's got the blues"

   synonyms:

   depression, sadness, unhappiness, melancholy, misery, sorrow, gloominess, gloom, dejection, downheartedness, despondency, dispiritedness, low spirits, heavy-heartedness, glumness, moroseness, dismalness, despair;

   antonyms:

   happiness

Here comes the rain again.  This week I promised myself some sunshine but I had forgotten that Wimbledon is in its final week, hence intermittent showers will persist until at least Sunday. I ran around yesterday, like a headless chicken, tidying my garden in anticipation of the Thursday green bin collection. I have paid Wyre Council an extra £30 for this service and am so determined to put out a full load every two weeks, that I was still trimming privet as the light turned to rose. Despite a sky overloaded with black, tower-blocks of cloud, the twilight sky was awash with soft, delicate shades of pink.

I needed to do some gardening. I was getting the blues. Correction - I have been feeling more than a little blue for some time. I am in a low mood, although life is busy and that usually keeps the blues away, something has triggered bad feeling in me that I don't usually have when things are going reasonably well. So why do I feel so low;

• I have over 90% responsibility for my Mum's care. 
• I have been working behind the scenes on the #wearehere project - most Sundays and Wednesday evenings for the four weeks prior to 1st July - and although this has been an incredible experience - I haven't really had a 'day of rest' in a while.
• My family have all visited from all over the country, Spain and Canada. They all have wonderful lives and sun-tans. I haven't had any sunshine since last September.
• I have become a compulsive cleaner - really I can't go anywhere without cleaning. However, should you invite me round, out of the blue now that I have imparted this knowledge, I will know that you have an ulterior motive. I will not come round unless you promise to lock away all your cloths and cleaning products. 
• I need a Jazz fix.  It is a very long time since I went to any kind of Jazz scene event. This is terrible. Kula Shaker were great but I am a Jazz lady. Courtney Pine at Lancaster Jazz Festival was great - but eons ago. I need Jazz and I need it now.  
• My own baby girl is about to become a mother for the first (and she says, last) time.  Unfortunately I think that I have been so in love with her bump and so busy looking at Gran-Baby things that I may have been errant in my duties as her mother. You see she thinks that being pregnant is the difficult bit...
• My son and his girlfriend have been in Lanzarote this week. I seem to have been force-fed football, beer and pretzels. I do like a bit of footie - but four internationals in one week? I haven't had to watch so many matches since Egypt 2002, when England beat Germany and Argentina in the World Cup. Oh how I miss the heady days when we could actually kick a ball into the back of a net. I am writing this on Wednesday and will have to watch Wales annihilate Portugal this evening. (I had to come back and edit this - Portugal won 2-0). 

So there it is, in a rather protracted nutshell. The reason I am feeling, blue, depressed, melancholic, low, despondent and heavy-hearted is "all of the above."

Thinking about the tragic loss of twenty-thousand young men on the first day of the Battle of the Somme put my own woes perfectly into perspective. Last Friday I took a little time to encounter local lads, all volunteers, who paraded silently through Blackpool and Wyre streets in WW1 uniform.  They have spent eight weeks, sweating, rehearsing their tableaux every Wednesday night and all day most Sunday's, to help realise the vision of Turner prize winner Jeremy Deller's incredibly moving tribute to the soldiers who died that day, one hundred years ago.

We have all shared WW1 stories as part of the assimilation. Mum had photo's of her Uncle Bob who served in the Army Air Corps, (the fore-runner to the RAF), I shared them with the lads, to help them get their moustaches right for the period. I accompanied them to a mass rehearsal at the old Granada TV studios in Manchester. That day, I was lucky enough to meet Jeremy Deller and the very lovely Emily from The National Theatre . It has given me some insight into the choreography and the intended impact of the small,white cards, given to the public by the young actors, each bearing the name of a soldier who died on 1st July 1916.

This was to be a WW1 centenary that would connect with people during their morning commute, sitting having a coffee or walking in our nation's city centres.  People who were busy thinking about anything but the sacrifice made by our fore-fathers 100 years ago.  The effect of the piece, for anyone who encountered it on Friday, may have been immediate or perhaps they shared their feelings later, with friends or colleagues. Twitter went over the top that day.

I wasn't allowed to talk about the project, known as Octagon, under threat of excommunication and for a communicator and press officer that is a very big ask. During the away-day at Manchester, I did have a little time to sit in a corner of the floor and write. I emailed the poem to Jeremy last Thursday: my way of getting in early to thank him for his wonderful gift to our great nation. "Bless 'em all... the long and the short and the tall."

 

 

 

Passing On

Khaki and canvas kitted lads,

Caked in grease,

Bathed in terracotta clay,

Earth-worn knees and elbows

Kitted, booted, belted,

Tin hats at the ready

For another trench filled day.

This is not war,

This is loss.

Loss revisited on a bustling street.

Organic: Seamlessly spontaneous,

Mindfully rehearsed,

In studios,

In secret.

This is loss,

Encountered by a new generation.

A high gloss generation,

Eye-glued to technology,

Nails, hair, clothes,

Styled to perfection,

For another carefree day

On this first day of July,

Spirits of our war-dead

With the living intertwine.

Not in prescriptive poem,

Nor in a staged and scripted play,

Each of twenty thousand men

Are resurrected and remembered,

In an extraordinary way.

On this anniversary,

The soldiers of the Somme

Sit beside us, stand among us

As a century of barriers

To sharing unimaginable loss

Crumble into wind-blown dust.

A living, breathing,

Monument to Peace,

Engages us in voiceless volumes

And passes on.  

Adele V Robinson (for Jeremy Deller - 1st July 2016) 

 

Thank you for reading folks. Be kind to each other. Adele

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A Star My Soul To Mend

Yesterday saw First World War soldiers wandering the streets of Britain like ghosts from 100 years ago, back to the future. They drifted around singly and in groups, mingled with commuters at railway stations, strollers on promenades and shoppers in high streets and malls, but not one of them uttered a single word all day. Each soldier represented a specific individual. They handed out cards to passers-by. The cards simply stated the name, rank, regiment and age of the soldier they represented plus the legend: Died at the Somme on 1st July 1916. There were 19,240 of them, all killed on that one disastrous day. They screamed in unison at 6pm and were gone.

This week's theme is supposedly science-fiction but yesterday's theatre and the event it commemorates deserve to take precedence, so today's blog is about that war and more specifically the Battle of the Somme. To begin with, an excerpt from a song by the American band Semisonic. This is from 'Star', recorded in 1995. I would have liked  to include a link to an audio recording as it is a beautiful and moving performance, but I could find nothing online. (Track them down if you can, copies on request.) The lyrics are ambiguous but I've always taken them to refer to the last thoughts and hopes of a dying soldier. See what you think...

Star
I wandered in the moonlight
A ghost without a friend
All around me starlight fell on lost and wounded men
I know that I took some damage
I wanted to be home again
So I waited for a star my soul to mend
I waited for a star my soul to mend.

Star you're a beautiful sight,
Bring me your lovely light.
I'll be your satellite, satellite.

(Semisonic, 1995, from the album 'Pleasure')

A while back I wrote and blogged a poem about Winter at War. Here below is its companion piece, Summer At War, which I just completed on the eve of the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme.

Yesterday's soldiers may have preserved a ghostly silence but I've built this poem out of words and phrases extracted from a whole raft of contemporary eye-witness accounts. These are the voices and thoughts of the men of the Somme from a century ago. I hope that the way I have incorporated, shaped and extended them preserves their power and resonance.

Summer At War
For a week before, the whole land heaved
As ponderous masses of machinery roared.
Shells droned overhead like giant bumblebees,
Spiralled away and the air closed in with thunderclaps behind.
Then came the crashing, smashing, boring down
As they tore into the quivering earth of enemy lines.

Each night, star shells lit up the trenches bright as day.
Infernal fires flashed, flickered with swift tongues of flame,
The rosy smoke-cloud sky ablaze with lightning,
Screaming with artillery,
As the very ground beneath us shook.
This was the softening up.

When dawn broke it was beautiful. Larks were singing.
You knew it was coming and you wished to God
That it was over and done with, the last big push.

When the little hand of a wrist watch said 'it is now'
Then the whistles would blow
And over the top we would go,
Wave after wave of British infantry
Walking right on to Berlin and victory.

The signal was given at seven-thirty
And out of the trenches we soft machines poured.
They had told us to walk towards enemy lines
But we were met with barbed wire and machine-gun fire
And it wasn't like the practice at all.
Men were falling as skittles bowled over.
We were walking across but we couldn't get through.
Tangled bodies were caught up in the wire,
Naked torsos spiked, black stubble on pale, haggard faces
With machine-gun bullets whipping them round
Like washing hung on a line,
Only they were shrieking and their bowels were hanging down.

It was stupid, absolutely stupid. Mad charge after mad charge
And the machine-guns just mowed us all
Like so many pieces of wood.
Tall men got it through the jaw, shorter men through the eyes.
Machine-guns filled the shell-holes, the hell-holes,
With heaps of blinded, wounded, dead.
Flies in the face of adversity.

It was a frightful horror of fire and smoke and stink,
Of young lives with all the blood oozing out of them,
Nobody there to lift their head, not one,
Nobody there to care;
And men who couldn't die although they wanted to,
Condemned to painful hours of lingering, hopeless life,
Trembling as the terrible sound of death roared around,
Giving themselves up to the supreme importance
Of holding on tight to every yard of ground.

How pitiful and pitiless this war - actually more horrible
than words can describe.
And how to make sense of it all?
Twenty thousand dead in a single day.

Respect their sacrifice. Respect their memory.

Children, be proud of your fathers.
Mothers, be brave for your sons.
Everyone thinks they understand what this earth cost,
But the only people who really know
Are the ones who are lost.
They lie beneath it now.


Never forget! Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

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