The insurpassable "Under Fire" by Henri Barbusse; the poetry of Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon; the memoirs of Graves and Blunden; the writings of Edwin Campion Vaughan; the letters of Vera Brittain; the superbly compiled survivors accounts by Lyn Macdonald and Max Arthur; the history books of Martin Gilbert, John Keegan, Paul Fussell, Martin Middlebrook and Leon Wolff; the contemporary history books of Neil Oliver, Geoff Dyer; the novels of Erich Maria Remarque, Pat Barker and Sebastian Faulks. Above all the largely untold stories of the dead- a lost generation.
Sounds Like
An attempt to find the stories that for one reason or another fall in the gaps between the pages of history.
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The Potter’s Field Project was launched in February 2009 with the aim of trying to connect young people with the history and literature of the First World War.
Blending individual tales of bravery and tragedy with excerpts from the poetry and prose of the time and mixing them with the authentically poignant war songs of Joe Solo, the result is a rich and varied presentation designed to bring the history of this critical period to life for a whole new generation.
Interested parties should contact info@joesolo.co.uk.
The Potter's Field Project's Friend Space (Top 20)
Hi Joe, thanks for the add. Funnily enough, I was called in today to do a show with an hour's notice as the usual guy had rung in sick. I played one of your tracks. I need to get you back in one day when I get a regular slot of my own again. Good luck. Bill
Joe my friend - you are one of the very few I think would do this noble venture justice. You may or may not know the wonderful Ivor Gurney, composer and poet (will send you some of his settings of Yeats, Thomas et al). This poem of his still chills me to the bone . Its discretion is what makes it "work". All the best with this, David. PS - look at how he uses the run-on from one line to the next to emphasise key words. The artist must always remain the artist no matter what...
TO HIS LOVE
He's gone, and all our plans Are useless indeed. We'll walk no more on Cotswold Where the sheep feed Quietly and take no heed. His body that was so quick Is not as you Knew it, on Severn river Under the blue Driving our small boat through.
You would not know him now... But still he died Nobly, so cover him over With violets of pride Purple from Severn side. Cover him, cover him soon! And with thick-set Masses of Memoried flowers - Hide that red wet Thing I must somehow forget.
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