[F.F. Teague]

And now for something new.

I'll be posting this poem at Freshtival too, but here I'm including the music bit.


Trip 1 of 3

Enjoy this trip
Enjoy this trip
And it is a trip
Countdown is progressing

Uno dos
Uno, dos, tres, quatro

[Dag-a-dag-a-dag, dag-a-dag-a-dag!]

F'Express


The trolley-bed awaiting me is close yet miles away.
I start to rise, get on my feet. 'Come on, come on!' I say.
The spasms start again. I scream, I roar. The pain is wild.
I want my mum. I'm 41 and suddenly a child.
I grab the bed and sit. 'No, sweet. Get on it properly now.'
I try. I scream. They grab my leg. I cry, 'Ow-ow-ow-ow...'
'What's going on?' A voice outside the curtains, soft and clear.
'They're [sigh],' Bro. A. explains. Then something else I can't quite hear.
A yellow pipe appears. It smokes. 'Inhale, good girl,' says Chong.
I breathe in breathe out, play the pipe. My woodwind lungs are strong.
The nurses blur, the spasms shrink. The curtains sway and part.
Bro. A. and Tess are here. Tess holds her hand against her heart.
'Hey yous!' I say. They hold my feet. She's left and he is right.
They raise and shift. They watch my face. We're spinning through the night.
I start to sing, of Mol' Malone, fair Dublin, pretty girls,
the cockles, mussels turn and turn in rushing rainbow whirls.
Now Brother A. is saying, 'Partly Irish', to a nurse
and Chong has finished bandaging. 'Good! Now it won't get worse.'
The spinning's slowing. Brother A. and Tess have left the room.
My clothes come off and I'm re-dressed in square-print gown of gloom.
The pain again. My nails are knives. I stab my wrist, my palm.
I whimper. Teddy Teague appears. He whispers, 'Just keep calm.'
'To AMU!' says Chong. 'Good luck,' he adds and pats my hand.
We ride to station no. 2 in Gloucester Hospiland.

[F.F. Teague]

I haven't posted here for a while, but I have been considering something rather ambitious, inspired by Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring.

This is all Bernstein's fault, really. I watched this video of him conducting the orchestra and a few thoughts started to spark. I think it's the fastest speed I've ever heard the Rite being played 🥰

[Martin Elster]

Thanks for the link, Fliss, to that fantastic video. I've watched a lot of Bernstein performances, but I've never seen this one. It is, indeed, a fast tempo in many of the sections, especially the end of the first part, as well as the finale of the whole piece. But I love the way he stretches the tempo in the majestic brass and timpani fanfare that happens around halfway through the second part at the 26-minute mark. The most amazing thing is that Bernstein conducted the whole piece from memory (without a score).

[F.F. Teague]

You're welcome, Martin :-)

Yes, I was struck by the end of the first part too, I think particularly the trumpet cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha, if memory serves. The video isn't loading at the moment; I'll try again later so I can listen out for the fanfare you mention. Bernstein seems pretty awesome so I can well imagine him capable of conducting from memory!

I haven't got around to writing the Rite yet, but I'll try soon

Best wishes,
Fliss

[F.F. Teague]

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.


G.R. Teague, 'Tats with Mum'

[John Isbell]

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

[F.F. Teague]

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