NOISE 

(Moments Musicaux Discordante) 

1)  1983 : By ferry to Gothenberg, then a 

motoring trip ‘up Sweden, down Norway’

From Kviknes hotel Balestrand, a boat along the Sognefjord.

Wondering at the dramatic scenery: Indigo water, 

sheer cliffs, ice, waterfalls, circling birds.

-Best would be quiet- 

If any music, then perhaps some Sibelius, Beethoven?

Suddenly: over the boat’s tannoy, blasts South American 

pan flute and charango.

Such incongruity; such ghastly, out-of-place, unbecoming sound.

Shame. To be left with this memory of wonder spoilt .

2)   2007 :  Easter Sunday at the Dambovicioara Gorge

Ambling through the winding, narrow, steep-sided ravine; 

emerging into a wider grassy area, rocky outcrops, 

taking in the mountains, far-off villages,

-Best would be quiet, stillness- 

If any music, then perhaps some Bach, Scriabin?

Apparition: He stood on the roof of a battered Dacia, 

brandishing a large bone, grimacing, 

as if daring any to scale his citadel and usurp him.

The Savage roared, grunted, bellowed along to some 

benighted offspring of rap, grime, drill, or

other coarse din that echoed to the peaks.

Such imbalance, disparity; terrible, hellish sounds.

Shame. Across snowy slopes, this loud jagged scar.

 

3)   2018 : By car to Tulcea, then a boat along the Danube Delta

Gazing at the unique surroundings; 

relishing the blue sky, lakes, waterfowl, reeds.

-Best would be quiet, stillness, reflection-

 If any music, then perhaps some Schubert, Schumann?

Horror: two fast-moving craft creating wash and commotion, 

awful types draped over cabin and rails, waving bottles.

And blaring out.... some Balkano, slap-bass, 

syrupy-clarinet-riddled horror of swirling and bleating.

Such dissonance; unsuited, conflicting, unharmonious sound. 

Shame. A jarring imposition, brutish uproar ruining the exquisite.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

March 2025

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

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.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

January 2025