Spells and Revocations
Oh, times in that recital hall
before the Soul Of Music;
waiting on ballade, barcarolle,
with anticipation suffused.
Mostly alert, sometimes sleepy,
then, caught up, swept away;
spellbound, transported, weeping,
at voice and piano interplay.
I heard stories: transfiguration,
visions, trysts, in forest dark;
ecstasy, passionate declarations,
sorrows, heroics for a sweetheart.
With each wonder, transmutation,
cry of passion or despair;
each poisonous or seductive potion,
quite captivated, I am there!
By turns, transfixed, enchanted,
from tenebrous eve to numinous dawn;
through bewitchment, fascination,
I’m downcast, rapturous, forlorn.
Then, it’s over, spell is broken,
there follows the shuffling into the night;
through Cavendish Square, to bus or train,
home goes the shy sybarite.
Yet, music and story linger still,
not quite ceding to the real;
I do so want to remain, to thrill,
to something enticing, magical.
Entangled in the harmonies,
subsumed into the text;
I cannot bear the clash of gears,
from one world to the next.
For I have heard such stories there
and…I have known none such;
there has been -mostly- smallness,
inconsequence, daily drudge.
Mere repetition, dullness,
a staring into space;
the ironing board, the cullender,
objects commonplace.
Occasionally there’s been be a ‘do’,
on a boat, in a pavilion, pagoda;
a picnic, too much Dubonnet,
or Punch, or Brandy & Soda.
Matter briefly animated,
with blush and gush, intent
on performing a dance, soaring aloft
until the ghastly descent.
Then, back to staring, wondering,
filing nails, cutting hair;
folding clothes, hoovering,
meandering here and there.
Seeing & thinking…nothing much,
no twilit forest, no steed;
just slender prospects and means,
a petty pace, creeping indeed,
Peter Jennings
East Sussex
April 2025
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