At The Humanist Funeral Of A Choir Member

The light about the place was beautiful;
This autumn, being late, the leaves were there,
Still clinging, glowing red, as, dutiful
To their position, marking spaces, where
The dust of others was, beneath them, spread
They made a metaphor for memory.

They brought your coffin in, and as we said,
Because you sang, it seemed derisory;
Your huge form and your deep bass voice,
Contained within that dreadful enclosed space.
And those who loved you best, as was your choice,
Made eulogy sans reference to God's grace,

And marked your passing without giving song
But grief expressed in words alone seemed wrong.

University Surfing Club Guidance for Organ Scholars

Well there are no medals
for knowing the board doesn't have pedals,
there are no manuals and you should try and avoid stops,
pistons, let's not go there, especially in wet suits,
there are no trumpets, no flutes,
16 ft is not a suitable wave for a beginner,
you can play the organ after dinner,
but don't go surfing until you feel thinner.
But the swell,
well,
that is something you have in common,
though you can't exactly control it with your feet,
you have to try, so,
remember it doesn't come in a box.
You might, on the swell, feel a little tremulant, at first,
but what's the worst
that could happen? You could drown,
but don't bother with your vox humana
you might just as well not,
you won't be heard over the roar
of the sea,
(much louder than tutti)
so just pipe down
acoustics aren't important.  But of course the great attraction
is  - it's all about action,
coupling, surely the point of all student activity
though an organist might find her fellow surfers proclivity
to speak of nothing else rather dull, and they make a lot of noise.
Wind of course is necessary to both,
and 'caught inside' means trapped by a wave,
nothing to do with hanky panky in the organ loft with choir boys,
or in the nave.

If Music be the Food of Love

My love, I shall change my pitch to thine,
an octave higher, so our sounds combine,
as in the air our bodies intertwine,
in aerobatic ecstacy divine.
And such sweet music shall we make
as in the wind we deftly procreate,
that human minds shall hear it and mistake
our song for one they hate.
But little will I care, when you are mine,
because we shall achieve the triple pleasure
of making love and music at our leisure,
while simultaneously seeking out such treasure
as human blood is, taken in large measure.
So come my love; let us both whine,
Together.

BBC News - Can the buzz of mosquitoes be art?

Two Songs Juxtaposed

I move the earth from the great pile below,
back up the slope, to where the roses grow;
October sunshine warm upon my back;
the soil friable and currant black.
Then, talk, that's been the gentle background noise,
is broken by a song, a tenor voice,
the limitation of the melody,
proportionately inverse to the joy
the singer feels, this warm October day.
The outburst isn't long, but I would say
sufficient to express a happiness,
which, born from simple pleasure, none the less,
most clearly speaks to something deep in me.


But then I go inside; on radio three
is someone singing with a fiddle, Bach,
the alto aria: Erbarme dich,
I feel an almost sad embarrassment,
that this superior beauty, transcendent,
be juxtaposed against a  paltry thing:
a man rejoicing autumn warm as spring.

Remembering The Porch At Swinsty

Much like a church,

Of golden sandstone,

First a wide and gentle arch,

Reeded, moulded, grooved, supported

By a pair of capitols,

Which make a pair of shelves.

A sandstone threshold

Made for tripping,

Then the flagged floor, sloping, dipping,

To the massive pegged front door,

And to the right a slab to lie on,

Table height or thereabouts,

To stay quite still, so I could spy on

Swallows flitting in and out.

And up above the beams and joists

In oak and deal, faded grey,

And then, without, the summer sky,

The long flagged path and drystone wall,

The sagging gate, the summer day.

And tangled Duke of Argylls Tea Plant

Growing all the crusty way,

Sending arching branches over,

With narrow willow leaves,

and pretty flowers small and purple,

Loved by endless honey bees.

The crustiness was silver lichen,

Growing in its patchy clusters,

Rough and hard and unforgiving.

And then there was the bell,

A teal colour, Verdigris, or maybe paint.

It hung where it was meant for ringing,

With a pull of linked, wrought iron,

Rusted to a deep, dark brown.

Though people pulled we seldom heard them,

Though its voice was aught but faint.

On the left the strange and best bit,

A smooth and well worn, low down shelf,

Hollowed out in several places,

Little ponds for paying wages,

Like inverted swallows nests.

These were perhaps the ancient plague stones,

Conversation points for guests,

Standing looking round and waiting

Hoping we would hear their ringing,

Push the two-foot- thick, black bolt back,

Into its deep hiding space,

And pull the door back, sunlight flooding

Into the dark corridor.

 

CHAMBER ORGANS DO FURNISH A ROOM

 

One really needs so little else besides,

An organ; 8 feet high and four feet wide,

Its grand proportions, architectural,

Make other furnishings ineffectual,

As one tries to furnish a drawing room,

For the gilded pipes counteract the gloom,

Created by the regency gothic,

And they make a talking point philosophic,

Should the conversation start to drag,

And they’re excellent places in which to hide,

(If one has filled up one’s other drawers)

Right round the back and all down the side,

In plastic bag after plastic bag,

A lifetime’s collection of musical scores.

Neglected Autumn Garden

The lawn is patched and bald, the grass there is too long,
The border's overcrowded by the wrong
Perennials which thrive too happily and breed,
And crowd each other out and run to seed,
And ask but little in return from me,
Except an autumn cutting to the ground.

And there isn't much left here now to see,
The flowers are done there's nothing much around,
The beauty of peonies in alkanet
Is dying  palms, all leathery, next hirsute,
Drying tongues, so rough they graze, and I forget
The blue sea which springs up from every root,
Reflecting back the beauty of spring sky,
It's time to restore order's all I know
So I wish death on Boraginaceae's race,
A total cull, so there would be no trace
Of blue next year, just soil, to show I
Have the upper hand, over things that grow.