The Seven Sonnets Of Michaelangelo, Song Cycle, Performed By Benjamin Britten And Peter Pears

 https://youtu.be/hNa378n3QwI

Such perfect beauty can’t manipulate,

One is not pulled about, on listening,

One hears, and one must truly concentrate,

Engage the mind, no tears glistening,

No need for self absorption, one is still,

One lets technique and knowledge work their charm,

One knows that real beauty lies in skill,

And satisfaction of the mind is balm.

This work is one of gratitude, both prayer

And gift on being free to work in peace,

And demonstrates that art is taking care,

And striving for perfection must not cease,

Despite destruction, death of fellow men,

Art preserved makes all things well again. 

Rightmove 2

 

I feel bored at your place,

Even though I’m only there on the internet.

It’s filled with light, a well-proportioned space,

And yet,

I couldn’t stand anything so bland,

Where are your books?

I don’t care for your designer taps, all the rage,

You seem to forget,

That not everything is about clean, bright looks,

It’s no good muttering, about decluttering,

I want lots of stuff, second hand,

I want to covet some old, artistic find,

To remind me I’m a human, with a mind,

Not some animal, satisfied with a clean cage.

 

 

 

Vintage Curtains, eBay

 

I don’t know why I think it strange

Intelligence can be detected in design,

And yet one does not think of the desire to arrange

Foliage and birds and abstract shape, in line

(And then to make such subjects interlink)

As based on the ability to think. 

One feels that artists’ skill in placing right,

Such shapes are pleasing to our sight

As separate from normal intellect,

And yet we pride ourselves on being able to detect

Superior beauty when we spot it, as we scroll,

Through fabric draped or hung or on the roll,

And surely it’s our intellect we prize

When hunting with our image hungry eyes,

And stop and there amongst the dross we find

The product of a clever human mind.

Rightmove

 Philosophy’s no use to me today,

Give me property instead, I say,

For Plateau’s cave won’t do, it’s small

And has these dancing shadows on the wall.

Show me something big I can’t afford,

The green eyed monster's getting fractious, bored,

Show me something tasteful and Queen Anne,

With gables mannerist and artisan,

And though it’s sexist, let the owner be a man,

Or better still, two men, with perfect taste,

For women follow fashion, act in haste,

And idly dream and wish, but hardly plan.

Oh, let me scroll the April hours away,

Through endless lists of houses on display,

Oh let me lust o’er something with a park,

Interior scenes in paint shades, subtle, dark,

Like aubergine, sloe black or ink of squid

And bargains all, at several million quid.

The Saleroom Dot Com

 I have retreated from the world of thought,

The world of politics, ideas, war,

I have decided now I must ignore

The world of subjects, things which can’t be bought.

I want things listed, labelled, catalogued,

The soothing world, where all is stuff,

Through which one scrolls and never gets enough,

Of all that’s classified, explained and flogged.

The World of Things, the Human World

 I have retreated to the world of things,

And mostly to the world of things in lists,

The world of coffers, mule chests and kists,

And all the happiness that old oak brings.

The world of Victor Chinnery, MacQoid,

Where all is peace and beauty, solid strength,

Though not all truth, and yet I can’t avoid

Reality in weight, height, depth and length.

I laugh at old attempts to pass things off

As many decades older than they are,

Yet age revered, age as a guiding star

Is not a principle at which I scoff,

Indeed, it is the one by which I live,

And men who tried to make age manifest

Were emulating all that they thought best,

And so it is our duty to forgive

And see the decent motivation with the eye

That prides itself on picking out the lie.