The Forest

The woods are where I feel most at home, away from clutter, prose and poem;

with trees, natural forms, I feel more free, that I have returned to where I should be.

Otherwise, by Georgian window, at walnut desk, languid, by all muses dispossessed;

distracted by empirical concerns, work eschewed, of indolence I often myself accuse.

Each daily walk, at first wearily, I pass the Institute for Logotherapy,

cross over the footbridge, into the forest, here arise the feelings most cherished.

The adventure begun, relief well-timed: a transposition of peculiar kind;

now flourishing, sensible to denser formations, the change of light, vivacity, imagination.

Along the tree-lined bank of the Amper, sun glitter shimmering across the river,

following me all the way to Schöngeising; moss, leaves, fungi, my hungry eye appeasing.

This is to where I always return, the trees and quiet, for which I yearn.

Before, by water, my hibernating spirit flowed, a small flame, never extinguished, glowed;

I waited for a mobilisation of the will, renaissance, regeneration, a quest to fulfil.

None came, but how I longed for such, amid the smell of the Fir, Spruce, Larch;

in the woods I searched, searched, with the Beech, Oak, slender white of the Birch.

In the winter, an occasional wonder. I danced in the snow, sometimes too far,

bedazzled from the radiated light, faint from dizzy endeavour.

Back at my desk, I ponder: has my imagination, creation, been squandered?

in some discomfort, some dismay, I think: have I anything left to say?

Now, my walk is with more solemn demeanour, hour after hour, just myself and Medeina.

This is to where I always return, the trees and quiet, for which I yearn.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026

Matters Foreign and Domestic (Die Au-Pair-Mädchen)

Often prey to luscious musing,

to calamitous infatuation;

and -thus enraptured- so bemused,

paralysed by enfeebling devotion.

Whence came this propensity?

the desire to worship at a shrine;

destined to repeat with such intensity,

this cursed, wearisome tale over time.

In the 1950’s, when I was young,

a succession of au-pair girls came;

from post-war Europe, part ‘help’ part Nanny,

I remember their faces, voices, names.

They magically appeared, transformed my world,

these young women who came to stay;

by strange inflections I was lulled,

at mealtimes, bedtime, bath time, play.

German accompanied my cereal, Italian my games,

from modulation, cadence, beguiled;

times of inventing, pretending, unconstrained,

a sensitive child with imagination wild.

I’ve wondered if such manifestations,

these appearances of another kind,

…in the way of astonishing visions,

set the patterns of my mind.

In between the visitations:

inertia, bewilderment, melancholy,

a yearning for the next liberation,

from colourless insufficient reality.

Then they would come! Oh Blessed Day,

bringing new scents, movement, sounds,

fascination, hope perhaps,

a change in mood, quite profound.

So the pattern was established:

dormancy, waiting, waiting, then

expectation, excitement, advent, bliss.

When they left, desolation, abandonment.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026

 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 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