[F.F. Teague]

"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.


E.F. Teague, 'F. leaning on fence'

[John Isbell]

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

[F.F. Teague]

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

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)

[John Isbell]

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

[F.F. Teague]

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!

🐨🐨

[John Isbell]

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

Cheers,
John

[John Isbell]

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