Photograph – Roger Leege
This week, the intriguing image above resulted in poets tackling this in diverse ways. We had poems about dead musicians and zombies, some very moving poems too, clearly reflecting on personal loss. Well done to everyone. Judging by the response to the voting, these were really enjoyed by readers. I am delighted to announce that the winner is Psalm 23 (poem 6) by Sarah Miles. In very close second was When no one was looking by Eileen Carney Hulme. Scroll down to read them all again with the poets’ names.
Poem 1
The Lonely Moon
Delving into the
darkness of the past
I see the glimmers of light
through the arched window
as I followed my father’s
footsteps through the hollow
echoes of the pews.
But my windows are full of colour,
not lifeless and blank
and I feel the warmth of the sunshine
in the rich, story eyes of my
childhood.
The keys he made sing were
grander too
sending out
powerful notes
deep and rich
to rock the unbelievers
and lure them to join in,
sing, praise and rejoice.
But the moon,
still gives me a
chill even today, a loneliness
and empty sadness, alone
in the dark, dark
coldness of the night.
Angie Butler
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Poem 2
The Ghost Musician
Music wafts softly
Through stained glass
Window panes
Of the little chapel
Into moonlit clouds;
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata
Changed to Ave Maria
Debussy’s Claire de Lune[i]
To Brahms Lullaby
“Tell her to play it again”
Shouted the blind nun
From her attic room
“What are you talking about?”
Asked Mother Superior coming in
“Please ask her to play the Brahms again”
“There’s no music now my dear
Sister Mary Cecelia died a month ago”
“Died? But she was just a girl”
“I told you Sister Lydia Mae,
It was an accident.
Now go to bed.”
“But I hear her every single night
She plays for me
And the moon
And the stars” she whispered
Poem 3
When No One Was Looking
We took the moon over the water
it was a night for moon taking
the sky perfectly imperfect
clouds arranged as letters of the alphabet
At first we lay on sand, your
eyes closed, I knew that blue stare,
questions you were always asking
about time and space and vowels
Then you said, ‘Don’t you love the word moon
it glides around the mind like a guardian
angel, plays to the soul, hypnotic
like the hands of a musician.’
And we tossed around some vowels
until we felt the pull, we became
fireflies, spiralling spirits
with no stones in our pockets
The moment was quiet not frantic
like muted light through stained glass,
as we took the moon over the water
fearless without footprints.
Eileen Carney Hulme
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Poem 4
Baby Grand Makes an Entrance
Gran’s baby grand was famous
for flying up stairs, before they were built,
and nesting in the long living room
where we have Christmas
and my wedding reception.
After the house sells I drive past slow,
stalking memories of Sunday lunch,
gingerbread cake and the piano
I never learned to play.
Stephanie Arsoska
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Poem 5
Zombies of the Stratosphere
I can hear the plague bell ringing. Better that, perhaps, than having to listen to the brittle tittle-tattle of parvenus. There was a time when our leaders insisted on simplified spelling – thru for through, or tho for though, or iland for island. O zombies of the stratosphere, I not only received a sign after praying the way they said, but it was bright red. Hardly anyone ever tells me anything anymore. I’ll go on erupting gently despite this sudden irrelevance, the darkness like the motion of apple trees somehow still in bloom.
Howie Good
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Poem 6
Psalm 23
The house is alive with pealing laughter and familiar notes
Accompany the lightness of Sunday release.
The smell of succulent lunch wafts through the corridors
Dancing on the eddies of Father’s rendition of ‘We plough the fields and scatter’.
Buoyant from a good sermon, he returns to us, eyes twinkling,
‘How was I today?’
We roll our eyes whilst our mother nods at him and whispers words of balm
His collar discarded, he opens his arms as our father.
In heaven.
For today we scattered his ashes.
The stained-glass window tells the story of our grief,
Drained and empty, we have nothing to say.
I sit and stare at the keys.
Feathery fingers trace the pattern of his hands, longing for his guidance.
Chalky light fills the room and I wonder if…
But the shadows cast are dark and cancerous,
The moon is no match for them.
Sarah Miles
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Poem 7
Dead Composer
Through glazed bars I see him,
the moonlight a halo in the clouds.
His shadow falls across the notes,
flyspecks on the darker lines.
He turns the page
and bends his head,
then straightens, rubs and blows;
another wrong note in the pattern
unfolding along the stave.
So far away in the garden
I would not recognise him
if I didn’t know the man.
Lost in a pool of light
separate, inviolate, absorbed
still in the act of creating.
Diane Jackman
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Poem 8
The Glass Sonata
They are waiting for you to begin.
You hold the moment like glass.
When you play, the keys will sound
with a crystal resonance.
You will see the reflected light of it on their faces.
The room has been prepared:
the walls rolled away leaving a window
flooded with moonlight.
The moon is a bright white hole in the sky
above the breakers of clouds.
When you play, not a single note
of the broken glass inside you will be heard.
David Mark Williams
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Poem 9
Piano locked in symphony
But in moonlit charm undone
Empty rooms turn to distance
That separate, my moon
From your sun.
In this tower, I dream of all that we lost
In these minutes, I long for your death
But the triumphant shadows
Piece together each note
Each melody
Each moment
Each breath.
Kitty Moo
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Poem 10
Sometimes a light surprises.
Why? Light from a small star
Silvered, borrowed by a moon;
Older than music,
Light that makes clouds
Or love as moonlight;
As sunlight shapes
Amoebae, windows.
A gothic arch, old keys,
Boards marked
By centuries of kneeling,
Waiting; singing –
Shaping holiness from absence.
Why this music?
Why this searching?
Why this surprise?
Michael Docker
