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Freepedia
is a series of free encyclopaedias. We currently specialize in history
but we intend to branch out into other areas. This section is about
Wilfred Wilson Gibson.
Wilfrid
Wilson Gibson was born in Hexham on 2nd October, 1878. Gibson was a
close friend of Rupert Brooke .
His earliest published poetry was Mountain Lovers (1902) and had several
poems included in various volumes of Georgian Poetry. His first play,
Daily Bread, was produced in 1910.
Gibson joined the British Army but remained
in England. Unlike most other poets who were officers, Gibson wrote
poetry from the point of view of the ordinary foot soldier.
After the First World War Gibson continued to
write poetry and plays. Gibson's work was particularly concerned with
the poverty of industrial workers and village labourers. He published
several volumes of poetry including Collected Poems: 1905-1925
(1926) and Within Four Walls (1950). Wilfrid Wilson Gibson died
on 26th May 1962.
Wilfred
Wilson Gibson: Poem Hunter
Wilfred
Wilson Gibson:Great War Literature
Wikipedia:
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
Wilfrid
Wilson Gibson: Spartacus Biography
Forum
Debates
The
War Poets
Wilfrid
Wilson Gibson
(1)
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Breakfast (1914)
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 Stainthorpe 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 stretching overhead.
(2)
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, Mad (1914)
Neck-deep
in mud,
He mowed and raved -
He who had braved The field of blood -
And as a lad
Just out of school
Yelled - April Fool!
And laughed like mad.
(3)
Wilfred Wilson Gibson, Lament (1916)
We who are left, how shall we look again
Happily on the sun or feel the rain
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly and spent
Their lives 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 in the heart of things?
