Disappointments of the Everyday

 

A slice of Zwetschgendatschi, a pleasure, the Rose Adagio a thrill,

the Ferrier / Ruckert, a treasure, before the bitterest pill:

that these moments are so very rare, in the vastness, the run-of-the-mill.                                    

               

And I’ve no interest in what the post may bring, 

none in people’s ‘reviews’

of this or that resort or car 

or restaurant, hosepipe, shoes.

Recoiling from Das Gerede, longing for silent exile;

I forego my ‘one-time-password’ to the vitriolic bile:

the tiresome moral fury, the nauseous vacuity of ‘style’.

For I’ve no interest what screens may show, 

of fakir, guru, seer, 

of le dernier cri in garment or hair   

or wretched balladeer.

The triumph of mathematics over ethics, the enfeebling of much that was fine;

with discourse banal and barbarian eye there’s mere ongoing decline: 

to distraction as prevailing state and mediocrity enshrined.

I’ve no interest in what papers say,

of swagger, foulness, of plain

trickery carrying all before it

and turning all insane.

Set out the the Rockingham Creamer, the Belgian lace, epergne;

the tumbrels are massing at the gate, the worst they bark and bray:

our voyage has foundered on untruth, the crew in disarray. 

For I’ve no interest in everyday news, 

calamity, chaos, coup,

the wailing of language tattered and torn,

the re-hashed poisonous stew. 

BWV 582, the Death of Nikiya, are wonders.

Flagstad is quite extraordinary; then the deity’s blunder:

that these are such a rare delight, amidst famine, flood, plunder.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

November 2021

The Music Video of this work is at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WUH3nGM6dpw

Constanta

 

(Just about) sashaying past the ruined casino,

you’re a cheerless sight indeed;

a ruinous hunger for attention,

has left you all at sea.

Waves pound the rocks below, 

a breeze ruffles the palms;

in flight from the fear of being ordinary,

you find yourself becalmed.

On the bench unforgiving,

cold wrought iron curlicues;

such an uncomfortable berthing, 

after such a sparkling cruise.

Distraction is the enemy of promise,

energies turn toward pleasure;

originality drains, syphoned away

in pursuit of shiny treasures.  

You’ve ended here on the promenade,

With Ovid you stare to the horizon;

there’s no one left to come to your aid,

this all of your own devising.

As waves pound the rocks below, 

and a breeze ruffles the palms;

your flight from the horror of being ordinary,

has found you quite becalmed.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

October 2021

Lowering the Standard

A howling fashioned from enduring hardness, 

unyielding surfaces, privations, fears, 

precarious days and uneasy nights.

A wail of despair, or a mute stare 

of exhaustion and incomprehension,

at unfairness, manifold injustice, unending desperate times.

On the screens, the posturing of the latest Duce, promising that

things not working will work better;

but still they do not work. 

Only now they don’t work… plus it’s muddy, cold,

and the Bitterness Marches snake from 

discontent to discontent, rancour to rancour. 

Summoned by exhortation, parade, chants, 

appeals to vilify and repel the common enemy,

the dispossessed are possessed by the demons of Outrage and Righteous Indignation.

The repetitions are as ghastly as they are predictable,

seemingly impervious to lesson, witness, histories:

Valour at the Front, Mentioned in Despatches; so are recast the iron myths.  

The infidel / apostate / misguided / impure,

are again exposed, marked, hounded, expelled; along with   

those who would take our warm-water port, our mineral deposits.

It is dispiriting. 

The cudgel enhanced to rocket, battering ram to gas.

(The banning and burning of words remains).

The waving of flags: The Stainless Banner, Five Star Red, Tulips of Martyrdom;

pride, beating of chests and drums, vows of revenge. 

So it continues, as the earth drowns and burns.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

September 2021

Dismantling the Set

 [a stay with a symbolist film maker proves tiresome]

To promenade the lime trees by the seashore, I desire,

for I fade in the villa’s shuttered gloom;

surrounded by Caspian folklore, I’m tired,

by perfume, costume, entombed.

Achingly long scenes, metaphysical themes, 

of childhood, ritual, dream;

the tableaux, the symbols, water, fire, Oh,

best leave before I scream.

I’ll make a way from the Caspian, 

from fable, ‘meaning’ and woe. 

from samovar, poppy, fascination; 

to the mountains I must go.

Crosses, birds, Kaitags, blood,

such a mix, a muddle, I can’t breathe;

and your self-regarding ‘artist' friends 

are boring beyond belief.

Achingly long scenes, metaphysical themes, 

of childhood, ritual, dream;

the tableaux, the symbols, water, fire, Oh,

I’m leaving, before I scream.

I’m making a way from the Caspian, 

from fable, ‘meaning’ and woe, 

from, fetish, illusion, enchantment; 

to the mountains I will go.

And I’ll look down at the twinkling blue, 

from clearer air and light;

where cypresses punctuate ochre hills, 

I’ll sing to the trees, 

sing to the stream, 

sing to the moon tonight.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

May 2021

The Music Video of this work is at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=369f1zoI8HY

Blossom Falls

 

Pre-Vernal

Nursing sorrow of Pangean origin, 

Rowena, uncommon, guileless, with some dread emerges into the world.

Etiolated, faded,
she discerns -with sinking heart and searing loss- that matters are unchanged: 

venality, vulgarity, grim acquiescence, callowness prevail.

She feels... contrition, remorse;
yet, commendably, finds an unextinguished light, some undimmed wonderment.

Vernal

By this enspirited (though knowing well that disappointment follows) Rowena attends to her pliés by the kitchen table, relevés by the radiator, then, later, sequences before the studio mirror.

Such an unfolding: sureness, refinement, discipline, graceful line. 

She has rarefied sensibility, 

(a stern inner voice decrees that pure gifts be harnessed to some humdrum project or other) 

But... it would be infinitely sad should grace become lumpen, mere activity triumph.

Estival

Then, energy surges, floods:

Rowena gushes into the world, resplendent, captivating, full of promise, confident, impishly disdainful, she jumps and turns and becomes... undivided;

there’s transformation to a state of play, from where creation and invention erupt.

Caught up in a comet’s tail, disordered by vapours, propelled by wild electrics, there is joyousness, continuity, unconcern; merciful, loosening, unconcern.

Her movements, free-to-a-giddyness, embrace possibility.

Serotinal

After the excitement, volatile buoyancy, comes the decline. She is spent.

Rowena steadies herself, wondering, as always, quite what possessed her. 

She sits beside the pond in the courtyard;
the once-tall gentians, blue, white, lay bedraggled, buffeted by squall.

For a while, there’s graciousness, a sensible creature, urbanely reflective; 

Within and Without are reconciled,

perhaps things can be made tolerable.

Autumnal

Disentangling from reverie, from allure and blandishment of certainty, 

she returns to habitual disquiet:

-in some dreams -a print of Santi’s Terpsichore in trembling hand- she wanders a cheerless succession of hallways and landings, never attaining a room, never able to hang the picture.

-in others, enervated, wan, she gazes, bemused, from the periphery of things; 

but, easily bruised, joining in would be... e x c r u c i a t i n g.

Perhaps, for dancing on a Sunday, she will be turned to stone; this could be acceptable.. 

Hibernal

Rowena, forlorn, feels only sleep is left...
having engaged as much as she is able, there’s now the need to withdraw; 

it has been enough.

She desires to become
deaf before babble,
blind before ugliness,
distanced from clumsiness,
pure, before complications;

unwilling toward any inchoation, with its fresh demands.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

April 2021

The Music Video of this work is at:

https://youtu.be/v5eQ29_Fnuw