Spells and Disenchantment 

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.

A recital for piano and voice of

'Spells & Disenchantment' can be found at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QsQZ1IXvbec

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

April 2025

Mourning

Beloved Gaistal Valley, a fine dawn, low lingering mist;

distant jangle of cow bells, before the dense pine forest.

Along the stony path, across springy meadow, an hour

by meandering stream, oh, the wonderful Alpine flowers!

Then a steeper climb, up through the wooded way,

anticipating the first Alm, first viertel of Spätlese.

These were days as fine as I would know.

On the way, an distinguished man in Bavarian green

drew alongside; an affable companion, Anglophile it seemed.

Beneath the urbanity……something, waggish, wry,

the mannered politeness veiled an impish eye.

A carefree, antic bow, a resounding “Grüss Gott”,

with swish and swank, he struck out for mountain top.

This an impression as firm as I would know.

Evening Gemüse Platter, with spirit enriched,

up winding slope, flanked by trees and ditch.

Up and around, a full moon wandern

(morning revealed it’d been the toboggan run).

Minus 15, low bright stars, the unknown to left and right.

A little dizzy from the clean sharp air, sometimes slipping on the ice.

This a night as black as I would know,

Stars as bright as I would see.

Stars as bright as I would ever see.

A recital for piano & voice of 'Mourning'

can be found at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MnFf819DQE

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

January 2025

 Song Of Frivolity

(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.

I remember:

Near the shore, where rivulets snake to the firth,

a concealed buttressed entrance, never breached, unearthed.

Our burrow, hollowed within sandy bank,

a cavernous warren, for which I gave thanks:

Home to all that seemed of worth.

When understanding we were quickly marked and moved,

These labyrinths -fashioned after much toil- proved

a retreat from craving, appetites, emptying of self.

Through tears, despair, preservation compelled

stillness, from the world removed.

By air vent came the cry of seagulls,

echoing through sand-cave, our secret cathedral, with

shrines to Aphrodite Urania and Ananke

that set energies flowing: a tumbling fanfare

and Dance to the Shells, in aspect unequalled.

There were paths not walked, faltering intent,

seasons of purgation, misgiving, bewilderment;

but a more rare, refined creature emerges,

neither languid nor frail from reflection or purges,

bright on Samphire, Purslane, Buckthorn, wonders dreamt.

It brought relief from the existence mechanical,

the Tyranny of Order, the Order of the Tyrannical.

Our burrow, hollowed within sandy bank,

a cavernous warren, for which daily I gave thanks:

Home to all that was magical.

But, desiring more, you left:

After trying here and there,

in wide Constanta you landed,

Finery slowly rusting,

by the world disenchanted.

The avenues of dissolution,

summoned what remained intact,

of wit, style, picaresque fiction,

a tiring flaneur, in a brief entracte.

To the wines of Dobrogea succumbing,

a carelessness, dishevelled dress;

holding court in midday cafes,

with weakened grasp, indifferent verse.

I responded to befuddled plea,

curiosity, true, but also concern;

what I found no longer could move me,

but required a lecture quite stern.

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.

On the bench unforgiving,

cold wrought iron curlicues;

such an uncomfortable berthing,

after such a sparkling cruise.

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.

The short film of 'Song of Frivolity' can be found here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1UIwMzu1fs

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

November 2024