Recently John Isbell and I have been discussing poems inspired by music, so I thought I'd revisit this thread. It's great! Thanks for all the contributions :)

This sonnet turned out a bit F&F (friends and family). I'm popping it here for now, but I'll think about reworking it at some stage. I've had a few F&F poems published, I suppose.

Music: Fauré, 'Sanctus'


Sanctus

"Goodbye, our little saint."
Note in Tats' cardboard coffin, 27th September 1996

Beside my bed that night, I knelt to pray
for Tats the guinea pig, my favourite pet;
the twinging in my knees just brought dismay
and tears upon the rose-print coverlet.
I wanted to believe that God was good
and might take pity on my poorly boy;
my body wasn't working as it should –
I often thought I was a devil's toy.
But in the blurry light at 6 o'clock,
I knew that Tats had died yet something stirred
in collared dove duets, the scent of stock
beneath my window, and a voice, a word:
Sanctus. I went to Tats and hugged him tight
then bathed him one last time. The final rite.

https://i.imgur.com/G73YaAM.jpeg
G.R. Teague, 'Tats with Mum'

Hi Fliss,

That's a sad poem but a good memorial. I'm glad you posted it with the photo to accompany it.

Cheers,
John

Thanks, John; I think this one's set for the guinea-MS, as encouraged by the people of Winchcombe, lol. And thanks for appreciating Graham's photo of dear Tats. He (Tats) actually won first prize at the Winchcombe Pet Show in 1995, which earned him a red rosette and his picture in the local paper. He had such a sweet nature, the judges all fell in love with him 🥰

Best wishes,
Fliss

Well done Tats!

Cheers,
John

"Thanks, John!" squeaks spirit-Tats, dear fellow 🥰

Here's another that turned out a bit F&F, lol. I composed it on Easter Monday, having been in Winchcombe on the Sunday.

Music: J.S. Bach (arr. L. Stokowski), 'Sheep May Safely Graze'


Safe

The ewes and lambs are grazing, safe, I think
and hope, in fields beside my childhood home.
Their bleating sounds content, a way to sing
at Easter, giving thanks. And now they roam

towards the small yet sturdy hazel hedge
that separates their pasture from the lane.
One mother pauses, lifts her woolly head
as if to smell the April air for rain

or watch for something circling in the skies:
a buzzard, maybe. But the sun is strong
and only peaceful pigeons saunter by,
the flock from Abbots Leys, in silver throng

above the rippling grass, the greening trees –
and then, an upturned fork. The mobile mast.
I see it poised to spear the sheep, the fields,
tune up the building band. I hear a Blast!

but that's just Dad, not demolition nor
development. His boots are tight and chafe.
A blip – we'll sort it out. The sheep graze on;
for now, at least, they’re here and they are safe.

https://i.imgur.com/V0AyJJV.jpeg
E.F. Teague, 'F. leaning on fence'

Hi FLiss,

I like poem, photo, and the news the sheep are safe. Here meanwhile is a musical poem of mine, based on a dream I had in which Shakespeare's "It Was a Lover and His Lass" somehow melded with Robinson Crusoe.

Here's the poem:

It Was a Lover and His Lass

Was it a dream, where Robinson in tears
sings Shakespeare on the beach – while Friday stands
as if the palm trees and the shifting sands
are of his essence? For it has been years

since shipwreck on this island. As he sings,
he carols, dancing in the rags that still
mark him as English. In the ding-a-dings,
the nonny-nos, as if a windowsill

looked out upon a garden, he can see
the life now taken from him. And the salt
tears run down his tan cheeks. Progressively
his bare feet print the sand, in an assault

like the salt waves that mark this barren shore.
Now, it is very bitter to look back
on what is lost forever. Nevermore
will he dance with his fellows. There’s no track

across the sea to Albion. A man
can only dream, as I have. It may be
that he might sing and dance. For in God’s plan
stands happiness. And green fields. The salt sea.


And here's the madrigal sung by Peter Pears: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1K2iC4zHyys

CHeers,
John

Hi John,

Hooray! I'm glad you like all the sheepy stuff. Thanks for sharing your dream-poem, which I enjoyed reading in between work tasks earlier today. You probably don't remember, but I posted a dream-poem in Freshtival at some point; I suppose I could have posted it here. It was about John Lennon and slippers, lol.

I've looked back over the thread, observing that I've mentioned writing to Debussy's preludes. Here's another such poem. I'm afraid it bears very little relation to the music, lol; I was well into my Poet-in-Residence of Happenstance Border Morris at the time of writing, hence 'Mincombe', rather resembling 'Winchcombe'. And the made-up words, nonsense. I do like the sound of Great-Grandpa Gene, though. And also Fierce Frank! He'd be good on a night out :D

Music: Debussy, Minstrels


Minstrels

Every Saturday morn
by the River Isbourne
there's a bit of a musical show
as the sun climbs the sky
swans come swimmering by
and a briskery breeze starts to blow.

With a squeezebox, a drum
and a well-tempered hum
Mincombe's Minstrels strike up a sound band
they've melodeon too
banjo, shawm, and kazoo
tambourine for a shakering hand.

They play all of the greats
twos, fours, sixes, and eights
and all manner of things in between
crotchets, quavers, and all
everybody's in thrall
Baby Bella to Great-Grandpa Gene.

Well, they tune to midday
then they wander away
on the path to The Thirsty Old Newt
then the show's at an end
they'll be back next weekend
with Fierce Frank on the Fanciful Flute!

🦎 <-- newt (not really)

Hi Fliss,

I like the meter and the portmanteaus - swimmering. Also this great line - "banjo, shawm, and kazoo" - and the closing rhyme, where I hear the Beatles Mr. Kite for some reason.

Cheers,
John

Hi John,

Sorry I didn't get around to responding yesterday evening. I'd spent the afternoon in Winchcombe, seeing six guineas including the ever-delightful Mr. Patch. I felt very well rested afterwards and I drifted off to sleep much earlier than usual!

Many thanks for enjoying the previous poem. I like that line too! As for 'Mr. Kite', well... I think I've mentioned I love the entire album. But that particular track might've found its way into one of the poems I wrote for NaPoWriMo last year. The prompt was 'a poem about curtains – at least eight lines, some of which contain internal rhymes.' Well, I was rather ill at the time, so I kept it little! I hope you like it :)


[Untitled]

My favourite feature of the curtains isn't shade or shape
or fabric, colour, bunchy bits, sophisticated drape;
it is the gripping, never slipping, objects on one side,
the cheerful cling-on koala toys, in which I take most pride.

The cling-on koalas might not find a place at Ideal Home,
they're all quite old and faded and they're not made out of chrome,
but how folks gasp to see them grasp the curtains in their paws;
and frequently we celebrate the k's with wild applause!

🐨🐨

I too have a cling-on koala, so I know whereof you speak!
Nice song music here as always.

Cheers,
John

Here's that poem you requested.

Cheers,
John


Strings

I’ve got no strings, I told myself, and all
the angels smiled. It’s only natural
to want to be a real boy. On the stage,
I pratfell, sang my chorus. Turned the page.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAykOz1gWi4

Clash

At the Annual Day of Percussion
the crash cymbal player was rushin’.
**He felt very proud
**as he played way too loud,
unaware that his wife sat there blushin’.

Math in Music

The cymbal player counted so many bars,
he could have journeyed all the way to Mars
before he stepped up to the music stand,
grabbed one leather strap with his right hand
and the other with his left. He separated
the plates at just the proper angle, waited
a few more measures, glanced at the baton,
then brought them forcefully together on
the second half note of a 3/2 measure.
The ringing clang gave the conductor pleasure.
Although the vibrant overtones blended in
with the ensemble, the magnificent din
annoyed the violins. They went on playing,
yet somewhere deep inside they all were praying
there wouldn’t be another forte crash.
(Some instrumentalists forever clash.)
They should have praised the man for counting right.
Were he to come in wrong, even a slight
bit early or late — It’s all a matter of math.
If he lost count, he would incur the wrath
of the maestro. Were the fellow to ignore
the beat completely, he’d be out the door!
While the fidgety fiddlers would surely think it swell,
music without meter is unwell.

(Appeared in THEMA.)

Martin, I did violin until I was twelve and quit because of a dispiriting teacher. I would never complain, however, even ever so little, really, not the least, no, really, no! ‘bout a cymbal clash on the ‘zact instant, delivered with pin-point timing. You’ve got us g-string touchers so wrong. I forgive you. You can’t know what it’s like to do third position sans vibrato unless, unless—oh well, timing is all.

I actually Like your poem—hear the high e-string mosquito whistle far away? What a looker! then two open strings and the bow frog shaking with pressure. Sonata in A.

Banjo, kazoo, shawm, now there’s a few words, Fliss, that I relish. Cimbalom is one more. Nice imagery. Enjoyed a great deal. Do more like that. Please.

I have a thing called Tanglewood that’s in my current book on Amazon, which responds to the experience of outdoor music at several US venues. To be posted when I get back from buying groceries.


mmmnnTanglewood

mmnn Is there music here?
Now the children in afternoon
Step the meadow. Courtly measures
mmnn Salute twilight.

mmnn After setting sun,
Gossips hush to muted hobnob.
Hoots and squeaks reverberate
mmnn Soft through heaven.

mmnnCloudlets ride above.
nHow the cimbalom resolves!
nArtists steady into silence.
mmnn Hundreds listen.

mmnn Ennui scampers out.
Closing rhythms laud the hillsides.
Time returns. Warm night’s hearers
mmnn Hurrah, and exit.

PS: I’ve made a post publication change in line 2, from “of” to “in”. This will have to be scribbled in by hand by me in my stack of physical copies, by interested buyers, and altered in any republication.

Thanks, Allen, for enjoying those words. I hadn't heard of 'cimbalom'; I've just popped to Wikipedia to read up about it. I'll have to see whether I can come up with a cimbalom poem. In the meantime, I have your 'Tanglewood' to enjoy; it's very well worded and elegantly presented, I think. I might have to buy your book sometime :)

- - -
Martin, great stuff. I do like a limerick! And 'Math in Music' rings a bell, so to speak, from my own days of playing in an orchestra. I can't remember whether I've mentioned the time in the university wind band when a percussionist skipped a beat and we all stopped playing. The piece was meant to end spectacularly, with a flourish, but we all tailed off in confusion. It was quite funny, though :D

- - -
John, thanks for appreciating the curtain koalas; I'm glad you're able to empathise! And 'Strings' is a great pocket poem. I think I recognise it from somewhere, the MS maybe?


Here's a Happenstance number, the one I put together for May Day. Some members of the group were up very early this morning to see in the dawn at the top of Cleeve Hill. Rain was scheduled, but I'm sure they had a good time anyway. The poem is performed in a broad Gloucestershire accent :)


Spring Song

'Twas coal black, the sky, over valley and hill,
trees, grasses, shrubs shaking in northerly chill,
birds glad to keep shelter in feathery beds,
and leaf buds contented to hide their green heads.

Then sudden, the wind died, all's quiet as a tomb,
'til bells jingled merrily out through the gloom,
and twilight illumined the source of this sound,
the Happenstance Border folk, dancing a round.

High summit, their staging, close by to the clouds,
which draped Gloucester county in purple pink shrouds,
and while the folk flurried, away swept the dawn,
as slowly the sun rose to welcome the morn.

And then, the whole shireland lay gleaming in gold,
from rivers to fields to the top of the wold,
the fish in the Isbourne, the pigs in their sty,
the flecked running rabbits, the larks pealing high.

Jack saw and smiled widely within his grand bower,
and all of his hawthorns burst into full flower,
some white, others crimson, delightful display,
to celebrate spring on the first day of May.

- - -
:D <-- Green Man

Allen, your poem is really nice. I enjoyed it. In the HSO, some of the fiddle players did actually get riled sometimes — flustered even — when the percussion section played loudly. It’s the conductor’s decision, of course, how loudly or softly each instrument needs to be. It’s their job to achieve the right balance. And if the composer wants it loud, other members of the orchestra should get over it! Actually, the stage hands started putting up sound shields in between us and the French horns and trumpets. But in the last few years, they abandoned that idea, since those shields took up too much space.

During rehearsals of Ottorino Respighi’s The Pines of Rome, I was playing the Tam-Tam (gong) (as well as the glockenspiel). The Tam-Tam is prominent near the end of the piece. The second trumpet player asked me to play less loudly because she was pregnant and didn’t want the gong noise to rattle or disturb her fetus. That’s quite understandable, so I toned it down in the performances. I don’t know if Respighi would have liked it, but he’s under the ground.

Another time (many moons ago), during the first rehearsal of a program, the whole percussion section played a unison crash in a piece by (if I remember) Ralph Vaughn Williams. We played it so together that I smiled. Later, one of the female violinists got really angry at me (for smiling). She assumed that I smiled because the crash was so loud. I explained to her that it was because I was amazed about how precisely together we were on the first try. She really was irate! But I know that you, Allen, would never have complained.

It’s nice that you played violin, and I’m glad you imagined the g, d, a, and e strings vibrating.

Fliss, I like the imagery in your Spring Song.

Thanks, Martin; there are a few images of May Day in 2019 on this page. For some reason they're rather elongated, but if you scroll down to the lowest set you'll probably be able to make out the Green Man (Bob). It's quite an occasion for Happenstance :D

Thanks, Fliss, for the link to those May Day pictures.

Allen, I forgot to mention that I like "cimbalom" in your poem. I wonder if it was a performance of a piece by Zoltán Kodály. (I also like the personification of ennui "scampering out.")

Martin, totally correct on Kodaly [Háry János]. I think it’s his best piece, better than Taras Bulba, etc. You probably know that the cimbalom is a slightly more fancied up version of another of my favorites, the santouri, which features in some of my favorite Greek performances. The santouri is a very old and truly sophisticated instrument in its own right, going deep into Byzantine (Romaika) history of the eastern Roman empire. It and its variants are found from Iran to Hungary and even beyond, and it is played by genuine artists often of very high caliber. If one wants to hear what the emperors and empresses of Constantinople listened to (when they weren’t killing each other, in the best top-dog fashion) go santouri or cimbalom. I am inexcusably fond of its timbre.

I’ve revised TANGLEWOOD.


mmmnnTanglewood

mmnn Is there music here?
Now the children through afternoon
Step the meadow. Courtly measures
mmnn Salute twilight.

mmnn After setting sun,
Gossips hush to muted hobnob.
Hoots and squeaks reverberate
mmnn Soft through heaven.

mmnnCloudlets ride above.
nHow the cimbalom resolves!
nArtists steady into silence.
mmnn Hundreds listen.

mmnn Ennui scampers out.
Closing rhythms laud the hillsides.
Time returns. Warm night’s hearers
mmnn Hurrah, and exit.

PS: I’ve made a post publication change in line 2, from “of” to “through”. This will have to be scribbled in by hand by me in my stack of physical copies, by interested buyers, and altered in any republication.

Háry János?

Ann, thanks for reminding me to name that tune. Actually, six “tunes”: the Háry János Suite, which I know that you like, and which I have come to like greatly. It portrays an elderly veteran reminiscing rather untruthfully about his gigantic role in repelling and defeating Napoleon I. The ballet videos are striking; the music might be an acquired taste, but I favor the movements which spotlight the santouri-cimbalom. The best of these instruments feature pedals for extra control. There is documentation of Babylonian dulcimers that are early examples.

For those who are interested, here is movement 5 of the Suite from a video made in Utah by an orchestra conducted by Maurice Abravanel. It remains the best I have found. https://youtu.be/FODCYmtd_T4

Another from Romania: https://youtu.be/cGXG4uTKcis

And for santouri, heck, there’s so much to select from. Maybe: https://youtu.be/Jk7nFxU4v2M

Thanks for all the links, Allen; I'll listen tomorrow, while I'm referencing :)

Green Man smile for Ann, upthread :D

Best wishes,
Fliss

"Martin, totally correct on Kodaly [Háry János]. I think it’s his best piece, better than Taras Bulba, etc."

Pssst! ... Allen, 'Taras Bulba' is by Janáček.

Janáček indeed, whose Sinfonietta lifts my heart.

But, to get the thread back on track, let us consider what happens when one gets too involved with the instrument under consideration. I like to think of Allen being thus transformed:

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of paradise.

From Kubla Khan by S T Coleridge. A warning to us all of the dangers of addiction to the dulcimer/cimbalom/santouri.
.

Aaaaaaaaaarrrgh! What me worry?
Ever since I heard Janáček's Glagolitic Mass, my preconscious assumed he wrote everything striking. I hang my head in sorrow (or pride, because this proves I'm not a robot). Thank you, Brian for proving that I'm analog like my slide rules, and I, I am trying hard to look ashamed and grin and bear it at the same time, and and...

Did you know that Tennyson wrote the famous painting The Rake's Progress? I thought not. It was on the BBC this morning.

As was this, really, this morning. The talking head is my son-in-law, Matthew Fagan, and he's telling us about trees.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Z6U...ew?usp=sharing

Anyway, I will swallow hard and accept today's dunce cap.



PS: Ann, nice comment. Gentle. Unlike Coleridge, I try very hard to confine my milk drinking to Fat-Free.
(Ann, you could buy my book. "Allen Tice" on Amazon. Use the "look inside" feature at the second item on avoiding mistakes. Anne Bradstreet was an early American poet of note, born in Britain.)

Hi folks,

Here's a random poemusical piece, with prompt.

How Not to Give Up Smoking


At the end of the day, I’ve decided to put on Chopin
to drown the crickets out – not the Nocturnes,
which I love, but the Études which after all
exactly fit their title. It’s 3 a.m.,
and I still hear the crickets over Ashkenazy
at the piano. It seems a perfect time
to collect my thoughts, such as they are. The white
and black keys dance at incredible speed, I can
almost see Ashkenazy’s busy fingers.

I’m slowly reading through the piles of books
on my coffee table – Horace, Haldór Laxness,
Italo Svevo – how not to give up smoking.
They quietly nudge me to resume my reading,
as if the world were not asleep at this hour,
as if I had a torch to read each page.


Ashkenazy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faR9CA-qZJU

Thanks for the contributions, everyone :)

Allen, I've listened and enjoyed; thank you! Brian, thanks for being here. And Ann, that's excellent :D

John, thanks for Ashkenazy! I think you're aware that I love Chopin's piano music. Your poem is a delight to read. I must confess to a silly moment where I misread line 5 and thought the crickets were sort of hovering over the pianist, oops, boops.

Now, shawm report: following their trip to the top of Cleeve Hill on Sunday to watch the sunrise, Happenstance went to Upton Folk Festival. It was a cold day and the shawn player's fingers became too cold to allow him to play the shawm, so they all returned to Winchcombe. Such is the importance of the shawm.

I wrote a poem about the dance 'Upton Sticks' while I was Poet-in-Residence for Happenstance; I thought I might post it, but I see I need to revise it first. I hope to do that between work tasks tomorrow :)

Fliss, you have reminded me of my Brexit joke. An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman (or Scot if you prefer) walk into a pub. Then the Englishman decides to go so they all leave.

I'm glad you liked my poem! It could be called Crickets Over Ashkenazy. I for my part enjoyed your Winchcombe story. I've also enjoyed the whole Janacek thread, it is very informative!

Cheers,
John

Greetings all,

Here's another poemusical combination. First, the link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PC6cPairOTA

And then, the poem:


The Shirt That Won’t Come Off


Out of Mendelssohn’s Violin
Concerto in E Minor – out
of art made great by passion –
come the wheeling seasons
on our blue planet.

This is the shirt that won’t come off,
the bow and string
that burn my heart to cinders.
I am standing
at the composer’s shoulder

as he marks up his page.
Time passes – time
laid out like architecture,
amid the fuss and bustle
of profane existence.
 


Cheers,
John

John, I think you're pushing it. I'll admit to being both tone deaf and snarky, but what do this poem and that music have in common that each one of them don't have with hundreds of other poems and musical selections. Why is this particular poem particularly related to that musical selection?

Hi Michael,

That's a good question, which gave me pause for thought. I guess I'd say three things in answer. One, that it's going to be a string concerto, given the bow and string reference, but that still leaves the hundreds you mention. Two, that this famously was the music from Schindler's List - hence perhaps, "that burn my heart to cinders." But three, and most importantly as I wrote, I was thinking of Wagner's famous essay saying Mendelssohn being Jewish and hence rootless could not have access to true passion. Unlike, say, Wagner. I would argue that the concerto is as "passionate" as anything Wagner ever wrote, so thank you, Steven Spielberg, since to this day, people are influenced in their opinions of Mendelssohn's "depth of passion" by Wagner's antisemitic garbage. Hence perhaps, The Shirt That Won't Come Off.

Cheers,
John

Welcome, Michael.

Thanks for that combo, John; very much enjoyed. I like 'the wheeling seasons' and 'burn my heart to cinders' as imaginative and emotional responses to the musical performance; the final stanza has a strong ending.

I've thought of another combo I could do, to a trance track, but I haven't found the exact mix yet. Well, Brother Adrian of the Rave Shed might be able to help me :)

In the meantime, here's my poem 'Upton Sticks', just tweaked a little earlier today. This is one of Happenstance's more aggressive dances, and the poem was inspired by their performance during a Gloucestershire Warwickshire Steam Railway war commemoration event back in 2014. What a long time ago that seems today. I couldn't find a recording of it, but I'll look again tomorrow 👍


Upton Sticks

Full uniformed, they stand and scowl,
contesting threats with grimaced growl,
their weaponry awaiting shout
to thrust both sides to raucous rout;
the signal sounds and all advance
on fearless feet in potent prance,
encircling enemies awhile,
with fiery eyes and scornful smile;
and then – thwack-thwack! – the stalwart six
wage Cotswold war of striking sticks,
with weaving windmill all around
the entertaining battle ground;
ragged reports in echoes tell
of flooded fields where fighters fell,
accompanied by rising wails
as steam trains pass their ghostly trails;
yet this is not a dance to death,
to end exhaling broken breath,
instead all finish gleefully
in time of camaraderie.

- - -
I wouldn't post this on Met; it's more of an F&F (friends and family) :D

Glad you liked the cinders, Fliss! I for my part enjoyed your alliteration very much, it seems suited to the dance.

Cheers,
John

Hi folks,

Here's another random musical selection and verse to accompany it.

Cheers,
John

Bessie Smith, "Outside of That": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsHiWhj5Wo4


Tonic

At the narrow gate of midnight, when the town
is plunging into dream, I find myself
downstairs where the municipal woods are lost
in these black windows, and the crickets’ song
drowns in the central heating. We are past
the autumn equinox, and night has come
to win its war with day. There’s nothing doing.
The coffee table here is piled with books
I won’t enumerate; I never seem
to shrink the pile. And on my boombox, Bessie
Smith has words for anyone who ever
had the blues, or wondered where their easy
rider’s gone. There’s no amount of reading
that cures the blues, but Bessie and the band
might ease your mind a moment – when the night
does not bring peace, nor morning any tonic.

Hi John,

Yes, super cinders. And thanks for appreciating the alliteration! I enjoyed writing that one :)

I enjoyed 'Tonic' too. I like the scene-setting; it's great to see crickets again. I'm wondering where 'the municipal woods' might be and I like the timing, 'the autumn equinox'. It's great that there's a boombox; mostly I just listen to music on my laptop, although it's pretty good. Adrian made his recommendation based on the quality of the speakers and so on. And there's the Technics Hi-Fi for entertaining, purchased 1999. The lyrics to 'Outside of That' are quite hard to listen to. I can relate to some of it, unfortunately. Well, that'll all turn up in the Shady MS, idc.

For now, I've thought of another approach to poetry and music: you write a poem and then it inspires you to write a piece of music. So here's another that turned out a bit F&F, but I'm thinking in terms of a piano interpretation or something on my mini-keyboard. What do you think? Anyway, here it is:


Hoss

I watch our Aidy trundling up the path
astride his wooden horse. It's quite a climb;
his little legs are working very hard
to reach the top. Then Mum calls, Dinner time!

from somewhere in the house. He hears and turns
and starts to ride back down again. So fast!
He laughs, I laugh, and then he hits a kerb,
falls backwards off the horse. I hear Dad's Blast!

as everything goes upside down. Graham runs
to fetch me as the blue wheels spin and spin.
The Herald roars. Mum trips over a shrub
while rushing to the car. We get Aidy in

and have to hold him tight. He seems asleep
as I count all the freckles on his face.
We stop, get out. Dad carries. Mum's saying, Please.
I don't know where we are. A spooky place

of rows of chairs and little tables. Toys,
but frightening things, like giants, staring eyes,
a white-coat man, he's talking, Dad's annoyed,
then pictures, Aidy's head, and then his cries

from just outside the room, but then he laughs
and laughs, our lad, and we go home again.
We play I-Spy. He tells us, H for Hoss!
and Graham says he hasn't got a brain.

🐴 <-- Hoss head

Hi Fliss,

Glad you liked "Tonic." Bessie Smith is pretty raw, as you note, and "Outside of That" is no exception. The title carries a lot of meaning - it reminds me quite a bit of Donald Trump apologists. The difference being Bessie is a genius - what a voice! - and they aren't. They called her The Empress of the Blues.

I very much like your idea of composing a piece of music to go with a poem! A bit of a challenge for me at present, not least due to the lack of musical instruments in our Almaty flat. But I look forward to hearing others' efforts.

Forgot to say, I think your Aidy poem is just brilliant. It reminds me of Cider with Rosie in its perspective. There's a guy called Hoss on I think Bonanza, because he looks like a horse (he's very big).

Cheers,
John

Hi John,

Yes, pretty raw. It's interesting that the title carries that reminder for you. I'll have to listen to more Bessie Smith, I think. I really like her tone.

Thanks for liking that idea! Music-making is possible anywhere, I think. A person can hum, whistle, sing, use kitchen implements as percussion, and so on. Anything, really. I reckon you might be able to come up with an abstract number. That could be a lot of fun :)

Thanks for enjoying 'Hoss', lol. I'm happy to have reminded you of Cider with Rosie and I'm intrigued by the guy called Hoss!

Another approach we have is lyrics, why not. You might remember my next offering; I workshopped it twice here, shortly after I joined and then about a year ago. I have on my To-Do List completing the piece of music to accompany it. I think what I'd really like to do is an animation :D


A murder

Something has made a kill down in the winter wheat;
there lie the ragged and rain-worn remains,
close to the border where crop rows and treeline meet –
bristly old poplars and trembling young grains.

Grimly processing from homes in the wooded west,
family come to the corpse and stand round,
each one exclaiming from deep in a black-clad breast,
then all rise up from the cold muddy ground.

Three times they sail a slow circuit in stormy skies,
riding grey clouds in their own dark array,
while the wind snatches and scatters their final cries
and the dead’s entrails are weathered away.

- - -
I've found that trance track I mentioned upthread and I hope to write to it tomorrow morning :)

Hi FLiss,

Yes, I remember this and continue to like it.

Here's Hoss on Bonanza: https://www.distractify.com/p/what-h...d-hoss-bonanza

And here's a little poem that ends my Concerto for the Left Hand:


That Song I Almost Hear


For the religious man, writes Abraham Herschel,
it is as if things stood with their backs to him,
their faces turned to God. And I can speak
to this a little. It is dawn, and each
atom in my line of sight is caught
in the new daylight. I can almost hear
the song that makes the birds sing – as the light
touches Creation, touches every word
this pen can write. That song I almost hear
is not for my ears after all. It is
a song of helpless joy: each particle
hums with existence, and that music leaps
like current to an anode straight to God.


Oh - I'd link to a recording of the music to accompany this one, but I can't find one. :-)

John, you really should spell Abraham Heschel’s name right, if that’s who you mean.