Poesie di Charles Hamilton Sorley- poeta inglese-Biblioteca DEA SABINA
Biblioteca DEA SABINA
Poesie di Charles Hamilton Sorley- poeta inglese-
Charles Hamilton Sorley was born on May 19th, 1895 in Aberdeen. His family moved to Cambridge when Sorley was five and his education later continued at Marlborough College, 1908-1913, where he became an excellent debater. His favourite past time however was cross-country running in the rain. From here he won a scholarship to Oxford but decided to go in January 1914 to spend a year in Germany beforehand to study. It was a fateful decision. War clouds had gathered over Europe and when war was declared Sorley was interned for a few hours, and then instructed to leave Germany. Sorley returned to England and immediately signed up to serve as a 2nd Lieutenant with the Suffolk Regiment. He arrived in France in May, 1915 and, by the same August, had been promoted to Captain. His poems are small in number but large in influence. ‘Such, Such is Death’ and ‘Millions of the Mouthless Dead’ evocatively capture the horror, carnage and waste of the War. He did however also manage to write other verse which succinctly captures the human feelings and the nature of what the eye falls upon and the heart understands. On October 13th 1915, near Hulluch, at the Battle of Loos, Charles Hamilton Sorley was killed by a sniper’s bullet to the head at the tender age of 20. His last poem was recovered from his kit after his death, and hauntingly reads:? When you see millions of the mouthless dead Across your dreams in pale battalions go…….. On November 11th 1985, Sorley was among 16 Great War poets commemorated on a slate stone unveiled in Westminster Abbey’s Poet’s Corner. This volume comes to you from Portable Poetry, a specialized imprint from Deadtree Publishing. Our range is large and growing and covers single poets, themes, and many compilations.
All the Hills and Vales Along
All the hills and vales along
Earth is bursting into song,
And the singers are the chaps
Who are going to die perhaps.
O sing, marching men,
Till the valleys ring again.
Give your gladness to earth’s keeping,
So be glad, when you are sleeping.
Cast away regret and rue,
Think what you are marching to.
Little live, great pass.
Jesus Christ and Barabbas
Were found the same day.
This died, that went his way.
So sing with joyful breath,
For why, you are going to death.
Teeming earth will surely store
All the gladness that you pour.
Earth that never doubts nor fears,
Earth that knows of death, not tears,
Earth that bore with joyful ease
Hemlock for Socrates,
Earth that blossomed and was glad
‘Neath the cross that Christ had,
Shall rejoice and blossom too
When the bullet reaches you.
Wherefore, men marching
On the road to death, sing!
Pour your gladness on earth’s head,
So be merry, so be dead.
From the hills and valleys earth
Shouts back the sound of mirth,
Tramp of feet and lilt of song
Ringing all the road along.
All the music of their going,
Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,
Earth will echo still, when foot
Lies numb and voice mute.
On, marching men, on
To the gates of death with song.
Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,
So you may be glad, though sleeping.
Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,
So be merry, so be dead.
The Song of the Ungirt Runners
We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.
The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
‘Neath the big bare sky.
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.
“All the hills and vales along”
All the hills and vales along
Earth is bursting into song,
And the singers are the chaps
Who are going to die perhaps.
O sing, marching men,
Till the valleys ring again.
Give your gladness to earth’s keeping,
So be glad, when you are sleeping.
Cast away regret and rue,
Think what you are marching to.
Little live, great pass.
Jesus Christ and Barabbas
Were found the same day.
This died, that went his way.
So sing with joyful breath,
For why, you are going to death.
Teeming earth will surely store
All the gladness that you pour.
Earth that never doubts nor fears,
Earth that knows of death, not tears,
Earth that bore with joyful ease
Hemlock for Socrates,
Earth that blossomed and was glad
‘Neath the cross that Christ had,
Shall rejoice and blossom too
When the bullet reaches you.
Wherefore, men marching
On the road to death, sing!
Pour your gladness on earth’s head,
So be merry, so be dead.
From the hills and valleys earth
Shouts back the sound of mirth,
Tramp of feet and lilt of song
Ringing all the road along.
All the music of their going,
Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,
Earth will echo still, when foot
Lies numb and voice mute.
On, marching men, on
To the gates of death with song.
Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,
So you may be glad, though sleeping.
Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,
So be merry, so be dead.
Such, Such is Death
Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat:
Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean,
A merciful putting away of what has been.
And this we know: Death is not Life, effete,
Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen
So marvellous things know well the end not yet.
Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:
Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,
“Come, what was your record when you drew breath?”
But a big blot has hid each yesterday
So poor, so manifestly incomplete.
And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,
Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet
And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.
Barbury Camp
We burrowed night and day with tools of lead,
Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ring
And hurled the earth above. And Caesar said,
“Why, it is excellent. I like the thing.”
We, who are dead,
Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing.
And here we strove, and here we felt each vein
Ice-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long.
And here we held communion with the rain
That lashed us into manhood with its thong,
Cleansing through pain.
And the wind visited us and made us strong.
Up from around us, numbers without name,
Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand
Pressing us in, they came. And the wind came
And bitter rain, turning grey all the land.
That was our game,
To fight with men and storms, and it was grand.
For many days we fought them, and our sweat
Watered the grass, making it spring up green,
Blooming for us. And, if the wind was wet,
Our blood wetted the wind, making it keen
With the hatred
And wrath and courage that our blood had been.
So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hot
With joy and hate and battle-lust, we fell
Where we fought. And God said, “Killed at last then? What!
Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell,
(God said) stir not.
This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell.”
So again we fight and wrestle, and again
Hurl the earth up and cast it in a ring.
But when the wind comes up, driving the rain
(Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rolling
Up from the plain,
This wild procession, this impetuous thing.
Hold us amazed. We mount the wind-cars, then
Whip up the steeds and drive through all the world,
Searching to find somewhere some brethren,
Sons of the winds and waters of the world.
We, who were men,
Have sought, and found no men in all this world.
Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly,
Bringing, if any man can understand,
Might to the mighty, freedom to the free;
Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand,
Wind that is we
(We that were men) — make men in all this land,
That so may live and wrestle and hate that when
They fall at last exultant, as we fell,
And come to God, God may say, “Do you come then
Mildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell?
Why! Ye were men!
Back to your winds and rains. Be these your heaven and hell!”
To Germany
You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned,
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,
And in each other’s dearest ways we stand,
And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.
When it is peace, then we may view again
With new-won eyes each other’s truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm
We’ll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.
Expectans Expectavi
From morn to midnight, all day through,
I laugh and play as others do,
I sin and chatter, just the same
As others with a different name.
And all year long upon the stage
I dance and tumble and do rage
So vehemently, I scarcely see
The inner and eternal me.
I have a temple I do not
Visit, a heart I have forgot,
A self that I have never met,
A secret shrine—and yet, and yet
This sanctuary of my soul
Unwitting I keep white and whole,
Unlatched and lit, if Thou should’st care
To enter or to tarry there.
With parted lips and outstretched hands
And listening ears Thy servant stands,
Call Thou early, call Thou late,
To Thy great service dedicate.
‘When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead’
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you’ll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
“Yet many a better one has died before.”
Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.
Charles Hamilton Sorley was born in Aberdeen, Scotland. The son of a William Ritchie Sorley, a professor of moral philosophy, Charles was a precocious and academically gifted child. The family moved to Cambridge when he was five, and Sorley attended King’s College choir school and Marlborough College, with some study in Germany. He began publishing poetry in the school journal and won a scholarship to University College, Oxford. Sorley was in Germany in 1914 when World War I broke out, and he was interned for one night in prison at Trier. Making his way back to England, he enlisted in the Army and served in the trenches in France. Sorley was killed in the Battle of Loos at the age of 20. His last poem, “When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead” was discovered in his kitbag after his death.
A collection of Sorley’s poetry was published posthumously as Marlborough and other Poems (1916) and went through six editions in the first year. Because of his time in Germany, Sorley’s attitude toward the war was deeply conflicted from its start. His small body of poetry is ambivalent, ironic, and profound. Robert Graves described Sorley as “one of the three poets of importance killed during the war,” alongside Wilfred Owen and Isaac Rosenberg. His other works include The Collected Poems of Charles Hamilton Sorley (1985).
Per riscoprire la penna di Charles Sorley, si propone qui di seguito una selezione di testi inediti e rappresentativi della sua opera poetica, tratti ciascuno da una sezione della raccolta Marlborough e altre poesie:
Il canto dei corridori spogli
Agitiamo i fianchi discinti
Con la luce negli occhi,
La pioggia ci cade sulle labbra,
Non corriamo per vincere.
Non sappiamo di chi fidarci,
Ma non torniamo indietro,
Perché è nostro dovere correre
Attraverso l’immensità dell’aria.
Le acque dei mari
Si agitano come in tempesta.
La tempesta spezza gli alberi
E non li lascia al caldo.
Eppure, si ferma forse la lacerante tempesta?
Si chiedono perché le cime degli alberi?
Così, noi corriamo senza una ragione
Sotto la grandezza del cielo terso.
La pioggia ci cade sulle labbra,
Non corriamo per vincere.
La tempesta frusta l’acqua
E l’onda ulula ai cieli.
S’alzano i venti, che la colpiscono
E la infrangono come sabbia,
E noi corriamo perché ci dà piacere
Lungo la radiosa vastità della terra.
*
Pioggia (estratto)
C’è qualcosa nella pioggia
Che mi invita a rimanere:
C’è qualcosa nel vento
Che mi sussurra “Lasciati alle spalle
Questa terra di tempi e regole,
Terra di campane e lezioni mattutine.
Il latino, il greco e il cibo del collegio
Non ti servono a molto.
Lasciali: se vuoi essere libero
Seguimi, seguimi, vieni con me!”
Quando raggiungo i quattro chilometri,
Per guardare di nuovo là fuori
Sui cieli bianco opaco
E il velo di pioggia alla deriva,
E il mucchio di siepi sparse
Che ondeggia debole sul dirupo,
E l’infinita distesa di colline
Ricoperte di vesti verdi e d’argento;
C’è qualcosa nella loro foggia
Di desolante e sterile bruttezza,
Che mi sussurra “Hai letto
di una terra di luce e gloria:
Ma non credere a ciò che dicono.
È un regno tetro e desolato,
Dove i venti e le tempeste ti chiamano
E la pioggia spazza via ogni cosa.
Non dar retta ai predicatori
Che parlano di una terra dolce e remota.
Qui c’è una terra migliore e più gentile
E non si trova lontano”.
*
Due sonetti (Parte I)
I santi hanno adorato la nobiltà della tua anima.
I poeti sono diventati pallidi davanti alla tua gloria.
Noi siamo tra i milioni di anime che in ogni ora
Attendono di percorrere il tuo cammino.
Tu, così familiare, un tempo diverso: abbiamo tentato
Di vivere senza pensare alla tua presenza.
Ma in ogni strada, da ogni parte, adesso
Vediamo la tua insegna dritta e ferma.
La immagino come quel cartello nella mia terra,
Alto e canuto, che mi indicava di andare
In alto, sulle colline, a destra,
Dove nuotano le nebbie e i venti urlano e soffiano,
Una terra senza casa e senza amici, ma pur sempre
Una terra ignota che desideravo conoscere.
*
Smarrito
Sulle fantasie del mio passato
È calata una cecità grave e silente.
Adesso il mio sguardo si volge ad altre cose,
Non quelle che un tempo vide e conobbe.
Non posso pensare a quelle terre a me care
(O laggiù, i tempi andati!)
Dove il vecchio cartello malconcio resta in piedi
E le quattro strade vanno in silenzio
Verso est, ovest, sud e nord,
Dove spirano i freddi venti invernali.
E cosa porterà con sé la sera
Non spetta a me né a voi saperlo.
*Il servizio e la traduzione dei testi sono di Pierluigi Piscopo
Riferimenti bibliografici:
– C. H. Sorley, Marlborough: and other poems, a cura di W. R. Sorley, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 1916.
– C. H. Sorley, Collected Poems, a cura di J. Moorcroft Wilson, Cecil Woolf, London 1985.
– J. Moorcroft Wilson, Charles Hamilton Sorley: A Biography, Cecil Woolf, London 1985.
– W. R. Sorley, a cura di, The letters of Charles Sorley, with a chapter of biography, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 1919.
– J. Moorcroft Wilson, a cura di, The Collected Letters of Charles Hamilton Sorley, Cecil Woolf, London 1990.
– N. McPherson, It Is Easy to Be Dead, Oberon Books, 2016.
*In copertina: Charles Hamilton Sorley, fotografo sconosciuto, circa 1914.