21.4.25

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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