In parts one and two of this thread, I reflected on the initial stages of my rehearsal process with the Hausmann String Quartet as we prepare Seven Songs for recording in 2013. I want to take some time now and share the story behind this work’s composition and the heartrending poetry that inspired it.

Vartan Aghababian (b. 1964) and I conceived of Seven Songs in the early winter of 2002, while we were students in the Master of Music program at Longy School of Music. 2013 marks the ten-year anniversary of this powerful work for soprano and string quartet on poems by British WWI poet Wilfrid Gibson. In his large-scale song cycle, Aghababian layers sumptuous vocal lines over rich harmonic textures to illustrate Gibson’s profound poetic messages about wartime. Since the premiere in 2003, the work has moved audiences to tears with its lyric expressiveness, as well as its poignant relevance to our country’s involvement in multiple conflicts abroad. With imagery ranging from soldiers in the trenches, to wives and mothers on the home front, to the plight of veterans returning to broken lives, Seven Songs evokes compassion for those who have given their lives or lost loved ones in the past, and challenges us to question our modern military actions and motivations.
Poet Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878 – 1962) was born in Northumberland, England, to a middle-class family. He began his career writing Tennysonian verse, but gave it up in the early 1900s to join other young writers such as Wilfrid Owen, Rupert Brooke, and John Mansfield, writing in the Georgian style. The Georgians wrote lyric poems which celebrated a timeless English countryside, and which managed to capture the fragile image of Europe on the brink of war. Their idyllic world was soon to be shattered by the invasion of Belgium and the subsequent Great War.

In 1913, Gibson founded a community in north Gloucestershire with Lascelles Abercrombie, Edward Thomas, John Drinkwater, and Eddie Marsh. Together this group published a literary journal called New Numbers, which, along with individual volumes of poetry, was widely circulated throughout Britain and the U.S. The Dymark Poets, named for the village they settled in, gained their popularity with works that reflected everyday life. Gibson was known as “the People’s Poet” for his use of language that reflected the speech of ordinary, country folk. He concerned himself with the themes of common humanity - married life, friends, his cottage, and the farms, fields and forests of the Dymark countryside.
American poet Robert Frost joined the Dymark poets in 1914. He admired Gibson, who was one of the first Englishmen to review Frost’s A Boy’s Will. Gibson’s 1927 poem The Golden Room describes, with nostalgia, an evening which brought all of the poets to his cottage. The poem captures Frost’s intellect and expansiveness, Thomas’s shyness, Brooke’s merriment. The poem also captures the pain that Gibson still felt – more than a decade later – at how the war had ended it all. Just one year after that evening in Gibson’s cottage, Rupert Brooke, sent to Dardanelles as part of the fateful Gallipoli expedition, died of blood poisoning in a field in France. Of Britain’s 16 best-known poets of the day, only ten survived the conflict. Gibson, due to poor eyesight, remained at home. He did not experience the war first-hand until 1918, when he served as a clerk on the Western Front. Still, his poems of this period are primarily concerned with the suffering of those who fought and died, and the sorrow and loss experienced by those who were left behind. He penned The Going to commemorate Brooke’s passing, including it in a small volume entitled Friends, which he also dedicated to Brooke’s memory.
Wilfrid Gibson lived to the age of 84, publishing seven volumes of poetry and several plays. Though he was one of the most famous poets of his day, his popularity waned with the advent of Modernism, and he is barely remembered today.
The Return
He went, and he was gay to go;
And I smiled on him as he went.
My son, ‘twas well he couldn’t know
My darkest dread, nor what it meant —
Just what it meant to smile and smile
And let my son go cheerily —
My son … . and wondering all the while
What stranger would come back to me.
The Going
R.B.
He’s gone.
I do not understand.
I only know
That as he turned to go
And waved his hand,
In his young eyes a sudden glory shone,
And I was dazzled with a sunset glow,
And he was gone.
23rd April 1915
Breakfast
We ate our breakfast lying on our backs,
Because the shells were screeching overhead.
I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread
That Hull United would beat Halifax
When Jimmy Strainthorpe played full-back instead
Of Billy Bradford. Ginger raised his head
And cursed, and took the bet; and dropt back dead.
We ate our breakfast lying on our backs,
Because the shells were screeching overhead.
All Being Well
All being well, I’ll come to you,
Sweetheart, before the year is through;
And we shall find so much to do,
So much to tell.
I read your letter through and through,
And dreamt of all we’d say and do,
Till in my heart the thought of you
Rang like a bell.
Now the bell tolls, my love, for you;
For long before the year is through
You’ve gone where there is naught to do
And naught to tell.
Yet mayn’t I find when life is through
The best is still to say and do,
When I at last may come to you,
All being well?
Long Tom
He talked of Delhi brothels half the night,
Quaking with fever; And then, dragging tight
The frowsy blankets to his chattering chin,
Cursed for an hour because they were so thin
And nothing would keep out the gnawing cold –
Scarce forty years of age, and yet so old,
Haggard and worn with burning eyes set deep –
Until at last he cursed himself asleep.
Before I’d shut my eyes reveille came;
And as I dressed by the one candle-flame
The mellow golden light fell on his face
Still sleeping, touching it to tender grace,
Rounding the features life had scarred so deep,
Till youth came back to him in quiet sleep:
And then what women saw in him I knew
And why they’d loved him all his brief life through.
Back
They asked me where I’ve been,
And what I’ve done and seen,
But what can I reply
Who know it wasn’t I,
But someone just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Killed men in foreign lands…
Though I must bear the blame
Because he bore my name.
Lament
We who are left, how shall we look again
Happily upon the sun or feel the rain,
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly, and spent
Their all for us, loved too the sun and rain?
A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings –
But we, how shall we turn to little things,
And listen to the birds and winds and streams
Made holy by their dreams,
Nor feel the heart-break at the heart of things?
“Seven Songs” Part One - Diving In
“Seven Songs” Part Two - Deep Waters
~ Ann Moss