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