Brahms and the B52s

Tags

acciatura, Allegro non troppo, B52, Baghdad, Boneyard, Brahms, Cello sonata, Dragon Eyes, Gansbacher, Lechlade-on-Thames, sonic boom, Stratofortress, Ukraine, Wiegenleid

The concert was a couple of years ago, but planes are flying over

as we read of Ukraine being a focus of global interest yet again…

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Two equal partners: piano and cello

bemuse the bat-stilled, fusty atmosphere.

Birdsong, muffled bells quietly interrupt;

counterpoint the sonata’s elegance.

Grace notes, acciatura mesmerise.

I follow an elbow’s flamboyant flash,

the audience transfixed on numbing pews.

The Allegro non troppo fades away.

Mercifully, no one claps before the

Allegretto quasi Menuetto begins.

Brahms played this piano accompaniment,

so intensely, that Gansbacher complained

his cello contribution was effaced.

There is no remonstration possible

as stained windows darken and behemoths,

such as extinguished the lights of Baghdad,

ravage pale skies over Lechlade-on-Thames:

Operation Rolling Thunder, Cold War,

Desert Fox raise apocalyptic heads.

Bikini Atoll, The Vietnam War,

Syria, Kosovo, Afghanistan.

Professional musicians persevere,

as Sarajevo’s lone cellist once played.

And we carry on listening – trying

to sublimate the Stratofortress engines,

sensing we are under the Dragon Eyes,

as they loiter over the leaded roof.

Their performances lead to a Boneyard.

Brahms lovers sense there are no smart bombs,

nor are there conventional munitions.

The faint music from calm spheres in deep space

is a Wiegenleid above sonic booms

and communicates the power of peace.

Georgia O’Keeffe

Tags

adobe, Badlands, Bear Lake, Cerro Pedernel, Cezanne, Cottonwood trees, Georgia O'Keeffe, Ghost Ranch, Mont St Victoire, morning-glory, Stieglitz, Thoreau

Photograph by Alfred Stieglitz, 1918 (Wikipedia)

 

 

If I paint Ghost Ranch enough, then God

will give it to me.  Well, that was the pact.

I loved The Black Place; those brooding Badlands

and that sun with its tonal harmony.

I strove to get to the heart of all things,

for, as Thoreau once said, Nature will bear

the closest inspection.  So, I observed:

repeatedly, intensely, like Cezanne,

with his ever-changing Mont St Victoire.

I would portray Death’s bleached beauty; a cloud;

Bear Lake; Canna leaves; winter Cottonwoods;

a blue Morning Glory; arroyas’ curves.

I would prick out river beds from airplanes –

some would say from a divine perspective.

My adobe wall shut distractions out.

Every day I would draw cool well water

from my own depths; would mix it with pigment,

till horizons narrowed through declining

vision.  Cerro Pedernel retreated

and my skylight became a small white dot,

an oculus to stars’ proximity.

Rokeby Venus

Tags

Baedeker, National Gallery, protest, quennet, Rokeby Venus, Suffragettes

Rokeby Venus: National Gallery, UK

 

unsuccessful MP   beautiful paradigm   refused breakfast

backward glance

ageing face   gawping men   mirror image

five slashes

almond-eyed Madonna   broad-shouldered detectives   opened newspaper

pretend sketching

broken glass

slippery parquet

thrown Baedeker

crowd’s fury

cooling-off room

six month sentence

force-fed

newspaper image   backward paradigm   ageing men

broad-shouldered Madonna

 

‘A Mad, Unreasoning Octopus – what Proust felt about Asthma’

Tags

Alpine spa, asthma, Belladonna, death rattle, Guermantes, lime tea, Meseglise, pharmacology, Proust, revivescences, sanatorium, souffle coup, vagitus

Proust Image: Wikimedia

Yes, everything was inflammatory.

My father blamed my sensibility;

said my symptoms were imaginary.

My mother sighed at my debility,

but did not want to show complicity.

Works as hard as his affliction allows –

my teacher flagged my disability.

Meseglise might tempt with its rural airs;

lilac pollen permeate Illiers;

Guermantes might involve inhaling dust,

or powdered fumigation for its lust.

Caffeine and a mist of belladonna

might immunise from the attractive whores,

coquettes and those almond-eyed madonnas

one pursued, with breathless dedication.

Revivescences were what physicians

ordered: affective disorder cure!

Poisoning my mother’s joy

required expiation and purification.

I recalled aunt’s invalid infusion:

its scent of lime blossom, wafting to me,

unlocking sense of selfhood, combined with

distinctive whiff of pharmacology.

My anxiety about maternal

separation was supposed to have led

to an unconscious conflict of desires –

steamed from me at sanatoriums;

sucked from me at those pristine Alpine spas.

Writing as therapy?  Sublimation

through describing Albertine’s departure?

I found it a dreaded master, but a

faithful servant.  There’s no insulation from

a germ-laden world in cork-lined chambers.

I tried to avoid contamination.

Wheezing asthma is like being chained

to a mad, unreasoning octopus.

Its souffle coup punctuated my prose.

Each virgule was an expectoration.

I wrote eight hundred words in one sentence,

though I disliked the declamatory.

Nothing was going to constrict my flow –

each clause a vesicle to be expelled.

I’d emerge like a pale pupa at night,

morphing into my imaginal state

and the tabacs sold me Cigares de Joy,

my stramonium fix for each attack.

One hopes to have been an inspiration,

even for a thirty five second play,

based on the brief interval we call Life,

between vagitus and the death rattle.

St Cuthbert

Tags

anachoresis, lammermuir, Lindisfarne, marginalia, oratory, quennet, solitude, St Cuthbert

Image from Creative Commons- 12th century ms.

Lammermuir shepherd   Aidan’s translation   earthly resignation

plague visitation

lapsed pagans   Whitby Synod   spiritual reputation

Pictish voyage

eyewitness miracles   contemplative anachoresis   preferred solitude

Lindisfarne assignation

Easter marginalia

nocturnal devotions

inner demons

remote oratory

strict denial

divine worship

incorrupt corpse

contemplative shepherd   earthly solitude   Lindisfarne miracles

spiritual voyage

 

 

Great Coxwell, Oxfordshire

Tags

Cistercian, Cotswolds, Great Coxwell, Joseph, monastic wealth, National Trust, Oxfordshire, Pre-Raphaelites, tithe barn, Vale of the White Horse, William Morris

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart. Poem published in October 2017 on this site.

Great Coxwell’s Barn

Off Hollow Way stands this vast, vacant barn:

huge receptacle for Cistercian tithes,

garnered from tenant farmers – a dry store,

where the granger checked accounts; did not trust

his hired servants.  Here Cotswold riches

were protected from thieves and from decay.

Christ had warned disciples about decay

and storing up of surplus in a barn.

Christians were always meant to share riches

and not to extract profit from fat tithes.

The parable’s ‘fool’ was he whose whole trust

was in possessions.  He had wrath in store.

Henry VIII would plunder a marked store

and most abbeys were subject to decay.

Monastic wealth was held in deep distrust.

Though Morris praised this cathedral-like barn,

Pre-Raphaelites would not restore tithes;

they venerated aesthetic riches.

We coveted colonial riches

and viewed the whole world as potential store,

compelling other countries to pay tithes;

forgetting moth and rust would cause decay.

What were the treasures we stored in our barn?

We’ll reap what we sowed: we abused faith, trust.

Joseph, in whom Pharoah had put his trust,

managed underground silos of riches

and, when his brothers came – not to a barn-

but to the pits where corn was kept in store,

did they recall they’d left him to decay

in such a space?  (He who asked no tithes.)

This massive hulk, once packed with peasant tithes,

now supported by The National Trust,

mouldered with neglect; died of decay,

until ‘heritage’ was seen as riches.

What are the values we would like to store?

Should we maintain the past?  Convert the barn?

Some build barns with their family riches,

but tithes benefited community,

as long as mutual trust did not decay.

Teach Me To Number My Days

Tags

insight, Isolation, meditation, pandemic, questioning, self-analysis

Image: Abacus HB Wikipedia

Weirdly I wrote this in 2019, before the pandemic. It seems appropriate now…

TEACH

Life has many lessons: what have I learned?

Maybe I should not have stayed in teaching.

Who was doing the teaching anyway?

And can one really teach old dogs new tricks?

 

ME

Too much of my life has been about me.

You might be a much better focus now.

Yesterday’s me is different from today’s.

You are a different companion too.

 

TO NUMBER

 

I decided to try and work it out.

Crusoe should have had a calculator!

They say that age is only a number.

Twenty four thousand days I have wasted.

 

MY DAYS

 

I seek forgiveness for those I have spent

in self-serving; not in others’ service.

Often I did not stand up; be counted,

but I reach out to you through poetry.

 

TEACH ME TO NUMBER MY DAYS

 

Numbering can be about gratitude –

that we are here, albeit so briefly.

Rossetti enumerated her love.

Noah counted pairs solicitously.

 

 

We count the minutes on The Doomsday Clock:

to reach midnight, we only count to two.

Teach me to number all the days I’ve left,

thus I will eke out all my time with you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Loneliest Man in the World (Sestina)

Tags

agribusinesses, Amazon, habitat loss, human diversity, illegal loggers, North Rondonia, pistoleros, sarampion, The Man of the Hole, yams

The harbingers of the highway, strange men –

pistoleros? – murdered his tribe.  Alone,

he raises maize and yams.  He is the last

to roam 4,000 hectares; to survive

sarampion, flu, smallpox and the loss

of relationships, family and friends.

 

The agribusinesses have been no friends

to Amazonian rainforests.  Men

decimate the land; their gain is loss.

This man has lived for twenty years alone.

With four, or five, some other tribes survive,

but human diversity will not last.

 

When the illegal loggers have, at last,

razed every tree to the forest floor, friends

of the indigenous will not survive.

Stripping rare plants that might have healed men

will leave us with dilemmas, all alone,

to face health crises; scientific loss.

 

In today’s world we experience loss –

loss of our souls; our languages.  The last

man to roam North Rondonia alone

at least felt what it was once to have friends.

He knew the co-operation of men

was vital for tribe members to survive.

 

Without his wisdom, how can we survive?

No man is an island.  All sense the loss.

Our planet is affected – even men

who murdered his kin.  The effects will last,

impacting their families and their friends.

Doubtless their guilt should not be borne alone.

 

Corporations do not erode alone.

Immunity itself will not survive.

Time’s arrow can pierce foes and even friends.

The Man of the Hole, who suffered great loss,

knows his breath will be surrendered at last,

but he holds that in common with all men.

 

Friends of our earth, how shall we survive loss

of habitats and species?  Fellow men,

look at this last man.  He’s not alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Elephant Apple

Tags

Dillenia indica, elephant apple, Elephas Maximus, Gardeners of Asia, Hamlet, Here I stand, pachyderms

Dillenia indica- the elephant apple tree.  Image Wikimedia

Hamlet said a king could pass through the guts

of a beggar.  Well, I was not prudish.

I was dependent on the pachyderms.

My genes went on elephantine journeys.

They were spread far and wide by these creatures.

They did their business – pat!- while I would pray.

Firstly, of course, they had to eat my fruit.

(Don’t ask me why Elephas Maximus

assisted me and was so efficient too.)

We had a symbiotic arrangement:

if you scratch my back, then I will scratch yours.

Only, I haven’t seen them for five years.

I am hoping that they will not forget.

Their cognitive map used to bring them back;

if it’s true they have all been poached, I’m stuffed.

They would recall when my seeds would ripen.

Humans don’t need them in the way I do,

but, as heavy horticulturalists,

these so-called Gardeners of Asia,

would lumber in a positive fashion:

not pulling down forests permanently,

but merely clearing a space for others.

Now we have Empty Forest Syndrome.

I have to drop my seeds around my base.

Sure, monkeys, rodents, bats and birds oblige,

but my sphere of influence is curtailed.

Here I stand: Dillenia indica,

last of my kind.  I can do no other.

Humankind’s nine billion seeds may not last,

for men don’t follow the ancestral paths;

they don’t see the elephant in the room,

but argue about constituent parts.

As in the fable, they are visionless.

I am the last Elephant Apple tree.

I can teach you about good and evil.

The Wind Phone

Tags

Aeolian harp, frequency alignment, Hourajimi, Mother nature, Otuschi, sea glass, susurration, tsunami, Wind Phone

Welcome, we are waiting for you.

From the hill there is a new horizon.

Tsunami sirens have been muted now.

The sea, a woodcut of tranquility,

is a dragonfly blue wash for weary pilgrims,

who seek connection to all they have lost.

They post imaginary epistles

to homes that were ripped from their foundations;

drowned with mental furniture from their pasts.

Messages rolled into mental bottles

will never be unfurled on any shore.

Voices are cast to the winds… no ringback

startles a disconnected receiver.

Some feel a tidal ebb and flow; return

to Otsuchi, where pine forests renew,

to discover their own denouements.

They close their eyes and listen,

straining for a whisper in a seashell;

dialling ‘0’ for an operator.

Dry grasses’ susurration is unnerving.

They sense that someone may be tuning in;

they have faith in frequency alignment.

Alert to Mother Nature, their heart strings

are taut, plucked like an Aeolian harp,

by the vicissitudes of every breeze.

Soon there is a marked diminuendo.

This booth holds their pasts, presents and futures.

They face the ocean, feeling its deep pulse.

Waves of raw emotion excoriate,

until their souls are polished like sea glass –

as green as the garden they stumbled through,

when they happened on the gate by themselves,

passing through the arch with its chimes and urns.

If they forget Hourajimi, then who

will remember them? Is that why they come?

Bowing, they dial the unobtainable.

Welcome.  We are waiting for you… and you.

Aeolian Harp photo by Simon Speed

Poem by Candia Dixon-Stuart