On singing Faure

Three things a choir reunion weekend is almost guaranteed to provide: deja vu, sore throats, and music of a quality which makes not being able to talk for a day after entirely worthwhile. It is very difficult to find the words to express the feeling of knowing you're singing right at the top of your game, that you've awed your audience with every piece, or even the shiver down the spine when you hit that beautiful harmony with the sopranos in Rossini's Kyrie dead on. This poem doesn't even try. :)

Christ have mercy. Kyrie.
A little faster this time, and live in hope
That the sopranos don’t go sharp again,
That the altos actually find their note.
Pie Jesu. If only Fauré knew
how difficult it is to sing that D forte,
But he’s requiem-ing peacefully and hasn’t a clue.
Bar 44. Libera me.

Song

Writing about singing - or any other form of art - is always an interesting challenge, and one that's on my mind thanks to Elizabeth Kostova's "The Swan Thieves" (excellent novel) and the prospect of a weekend singing Faure's Requiem. This is from a couple of years ago - either my first or second effort at doing so. It can hardly be called understated, but I think it still manages to convey something of why I want to sing Elgar's "The Snow" just one more time.
Incidentally, the formatting was once a little more exciting, but Blogger does not appear to believe in either poetic off-setting or the tab key. And I'm not arguing.

Song

Pianissimo

We begin.

A long sustained note; a perfect third;

Each of us with our own concerns.

I’ve lost my keys; I’ve lost my way;

I’ve had my chance – I have no more –

I’m waiting on tomorrow’s world;

I’m ill; I’m hurt; I’m tired; I’m bored;

I’ve loved and now I’m torn apart…

These whispers of our unquiet hearts

I wonder what he’s going to say?

We are but notes the piano plays.

Crescendo – jump a major fifth –

And down the tone I never can hear –

And rise again –

And don’t go sharp –

And onwards, forwards, into the heart,

And now we let our voices rise

And let the music now hold sway

In harmony, it shows the way

To reach beyond – to touch the light

And now the song bursts from our throats

And now our hearts are opened wide

To hear the Word which sings of life

To hear the Song, beyond the notes

Oh onwards, onwards, draw us on

Into the ever-flowing flow

And let us fall, and let us grow,

One thought, one heart, one voice, one song.

Diminuendo –

soft soft, come down -

The ebb and flow of melody

Ends on a heartfelt sigh.

As the violin plays triplets

The final note is sung

Diminuendo – soft, my love,

We end where we begun.

Holy Week III: Easter Sunday

I'm still trying to put myself in the way of a new poem, creating space to wait on inspiration, which alas is rather slow in coming and keeps being crowded out by fish dentaries and Faure's Requiem. That aside, here's the third and final instalment of the Holy Week sequence.

Easter Sunday

Coffee and biscuits. Pistachio nuts.

Pachelbel’s Canon. Small moments of grace

between Monday’s appointment and the afternoon run,

One sun-streaked table, one quiet café.

Though the jeans are still frayed; the mascara’s still smudged;

Though 2a.m. nightmares have rubbed you guilt-raw,

Still the bread and the wine and the grip on your hand

Still promise the wounded to get up and walk

and the life that lives in you refuses to die.

The fragrance of spices wakes memories in you

- dazed and uncertain, at the edge of words,

Off-cuts of joy and the empty tomb.

Holy Week II: Good Friday

This Sunday is Pentecost Sunday, where we celebrate the gift of God's inspiring Holy Spirit. Having given myself a weekend off to catch up with myself (and with the housework), I'm quite excited to see what might turn up. In the meantime, here's the second part of the Holy Week sequence - third to follow shortly.

Good Friday

“There are no unsacred places” – Wendell Berry

The blue jeans bear bad memories.
The black scarf; the phone that received the call
Still breathe cigarette smoke, the sour taste of bile,
Harsh, unforgiving lights and the cold bathroom floor.

One more crucifixion – one more broken soul.
One more set of scars out buying the tea,
Hiding the rawness of 2 a.m. tears
when the violence of regret won’t let you sleep

and the veil of the temple is torn in two
in the heart of a darkness already named
in the marks of His eternity –
The bloody handprints, and the nails.

Holy Week I: Maundy Thursday

Although Easter has now officially ended, the events of Holy Week don't simply resonate in one week of the year. This is the first of three poems I wrote over Easter this year (watch out for parts II and III), inspired in part by the sermons given by Revd. Mark Laynesmith at Heslington Church over the Easter weekend, finding, as Herbert would say, "God in ordinairy".

Maundy Thursday

Stripy mugs. Old photos. Under-stuffed chairs.

Jokes about cornflakes and Sainsbury’s Gold Blend -

Unlooked-for in this unlovely day,

A cup of coffee from an unknown friend.

Nothing explained. Not the uncleaned sink,

the half-eaten pasta, the ten missed calls,

the running that only made your tendon hurt,

the egg you smashed against the kitchen wall,

the night in Brighton – but already known

and encompassed by the love you can’t defeat

that still offers toward you the bread and the wine

and bids you to come, and sit, and eat.

Martha

So a couple of weeks ago, temporarily back in Girton chapel, I had the pleasure of listening to a sermon by the lovely Di Stretton on the Biblical character Martha, which reminded me irresistably of a poem I wrote a year or so ago in celebration - or perhaps defence - of all the wonderful Marthas we all know, without whom the little things in life just wouldn't get done.


Dirty saucers. Damp teatowels.
The steady drip-drip-drip of drying plates on the draining board
as you pray for strength, head in hands,
in a kitchen that isn’t yours.

Kat couldn’t do Tuesdays, so you covered instead –
put out the biscuits, the chairs, the cat,
drew up rotas, tidied up upstairs,
let the flower-arrangers in when they came at one,
locked up behind us when we left
and then went home to get the dinner on.

Tomorrow – the same.
find a bunch of flowers for a suffering friend
- cancer, poor dear, we’ll keep her in our prayers -
sweep the kitchen floor and the leaves off the drive,
do the Sainsburys’ run, give Mum a call,
and look up flight-times for your daughter’s plane.

Your life defined by the whistle of the kettle;
Rhythmed by the clink-clink-clink of teaspoons against the side of mugs.
And though our unkind inactions told you otherwise, you kept your faith
that all of life still boils down to love.

Croatian Dust

So I wake myself up and try a smile on for size.

It shrank in the cold, now it doesn’t quite fit;

And the certainty that you’ll call round in a bit

Is slipping away – guess I’ll let it slide.

And the dust of Croatia’s on my high-heeled boots:

Strong coffee and cheap European hotels,

Your hand on my shoulder, and lessons learned well –

You ain’t ever big enough that it ain’t gonna hurt.

Zagreb mornings – the wide open space

Where hope stretched as far as the distant hills

And you, haloed, leant on the windowsill -

Faded to homecomings, drizzle and rain.

Guess we let it slide, what we had of love:

Sea sand to ashes; Croatian dust.