Today has been a difficult day he thought, as there on his desk, finally, lay some evidence of his struggle with the music he was writing. Since early this morning he’d been backtracking, remembering the steps that had enabled him to write the entirely successful first movement. He was going over the traces, examining the clues that were there (somewhere) in his sketches and diary jottings. They always seem so disorganised these marks and words and graphics, but eventually a little clarity was revealed and he could hear and see the music for what it was. But what was it to become? He had a firm idea, but he didn’t know how to go about getting it onto the page. The second slow movement seemed as elusive today as ever it had been.

There was something intrinsically difficult about slow music, particularly slow music for strings. The instruments’ ability to sustain and make pitches and chords flow seamlessly into one another magnified every inconsistency of his part-writing technique and harmonic justification. Faster music, music that constantly moved and changed, was just so much easier. The errors disappeared before the ear could catch them.

Writing music that was slow in tempo, whose harmonic rhythm was measured and took its time, required a level of sustained thought that only silence and intense concentration made properly possible. His studio was far from silent (outside the traffic spat and roared) and today his concentration seemed at a particularly low ebb. He was modelling this music on a Vivaldi Concerto, No.6 from L’Estro Armonico. That collective title meant Harmonic Inspiration, and inspiring this collection of 12 concerti for strings certainly was. Bach reworked six of these concertos in a variety of ways.

He could imagine the affect of this music from that magical city of the sea, Venice, La Serenissima, appearing as a warm but fresh wind of harmony and invention across those early, usually handwritten scores. Bach’s predecessors, Schutz and Schein had travelled to Venice and studied under the Gabrielis and later the maestro himself, Claudio Monteverdi. But for Bach the limitations of his situation, without such patronage enjoyed by earlier generations, made such journeying impossible. At twenty he did travel on foot from Arnstadt to Lubeck, some 250 miles, to experience the ***** improvisations of Dietriche Buxtehude, and stayed some three months to copy Buxtehude’s scores, managing to avoid the temptation of his daughter who, it was said, ‘went with the post’ on the Kapelmeister’s retirement. Handel’s visit to Buxtehude lasted twenty-four hours. To go to Italy? No. For Bach it was not to be.

But for this present day composer he had been to Italy, and his piece was to be his memory of Venice in the dark, sea-damp days of November when the acqua alta pursued its inhabitants (and all those tourists) about the city calles. No matter if the weather had been bad, it had been an arresting experience, and he enjoyed recovering the differing qualities of it in unguarded moments, usually when walking, because in Venice one walked, because that was how the city revealed itself despite the advice of John Ruskin and later Jan Morris who reckoned you had to have your own boat to properly experience this almost floating city.

As he chipped away at this unforgiving rock of a second movement he suddenly recalled that today was the first day of Epiphany, and in Venice the peculiar festival of La Befana. A strange tale this, where according to the legend, the night before the Wise Men arrived at the manger they stopped at the shack of an old woman to ask directions. They invited her to come along but she replied that she was too busy. Then a shepherd asked her to join him but again she refused. Later that night, she saw a great light in the sky and decided to join the Wise Men and the shepherd bearing gifts that had belonged to her child who had died. She got lost and never found the manger. Now La Befana flies around on her broomstick each year on the 11th night, bringing gifts to children in hopes that she might find the Baby Jesus. Children hang their stockings on the evening of January 5 awaiting the visit of La Befana. Hmm, he thought, and today the gondoliers take part in a race dressed as old women, and with a broomstick stuck vertically as a mast from each boat. Ah, L’Epiphania.

Here in this English Cathedral city where our composer lived Epiphany was celebrated only by the presence of a crib of contemporary sculptured forms that for many years had never ceased to beguile him, had made him stop and wonder. And this morning on his way out from Morning Office he had stopped and knelt by the figures he had so often meditated upon, and noticed three gifts, a golden box, a glass dish of incense and a tiny carved cabinet of myrrh,  laid in front of the Christ Child.

Yes, he would think of his second movement as ‘L’Epiphania’. It would be full of quiet  and slow wonder, but like the tale of La Befana a searching piece with no conclusion except a seque into the final fast and spirited conclusion to the piece. His second movement would be a night piece, an interlude that spoke of the mystery of the Incarnation, of God becoming Man. That seemed rather ambitious, but he felt it was a worthy ambition nevertheless.

PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT

[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]

We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.

Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.

The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.

The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.

The pray-ers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH. 

The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt!

But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.

This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.

I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter
My absent child, my long lost son
Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker,
By the wood where icy streams run
Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields
Stretching for miles, empty of meaning.
The landscape like a worn photograph yields
Your tremulous smile, then nothing.

Here, you ran with startled steps
Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise,
Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds
With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes.
Querying awkwardly spoken words, small
Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch
Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool
A silly father who loved too much.

On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude
Partnered only by memory
Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade
Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary,
Where only the crackle of snow
And the fleeting trajectory of birds
Distracts my slow
Marshalling of comforting thoughts.

The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade,
A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light,
Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade,
White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night.
In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck,
A cheap skateboard, ancient video games,
A guitar you never learnt to pluck
A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames.

In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom
Your school work gathered into stacks
Barely visible in the gloom,
Our life together in disorganised packs
Denoting year and level
Development and academic achievement,
If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil)
Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent.

Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall,
Are brightly coloured, polished pictures
Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small
Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures.
A bitter echo resonating from the shadows
A cold thought darkening into memory
The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows
Having left all of us! Having left me!

If Monday were a poem
it would be short and terse
Disorganised and cluttered
not a friendly little verse

If Tuesday were a poem
much better it would fare
Over the words that went within
I'd be inclined to care

If Wednesday were a poem
it would be full of hope
the week is halfway over and
we climb back down the rope

If Thursday were a poem
looking forward it would be
dreaming of the weekend
and the joys that it will see

If Friday were a poem
t'would be happy, bright and gay
for work is finally over
and now its time to play

If Saturday was poetry
as frequently it is
Then I would sit alone and write
A poem such as this

But Sundays where this poem
comes to a natural end
For tomorrow will be Monday
and it will start again.

And he showed me
his arthritic hands;
pink ginger roots,
digits disorganised
& apologised
for not being able
to carry his own
suitcase

I am not a denominator of original sin,
some remnant or aftermath of fallen grace.
Indeed, I am hardly human at all.

I live in the spaces between breath and mist,
where gravity dares suspend its hold
and all matter slips away until nothing matters.

I pour drinks so I can afford to drink.
It pays my way towards the dead-end
now occluding the avenue that used to stretch

beyond it.

I am not a believer in disorganised action.
Each moment spent in self-destruction
was thoughtfully done to bring about art and demise.

I live in the moment between charm quark and decay,
where gravity falls to weakness
and all that matters slips into temperance.

I eat only to satisfy appetite.
It tastes of nothing but the dead-ends
that now occlude the avenue that used to stretch

far beyond me.

This is a short story that was written for a contest  'Magic with a cliffhanger'


The young magician had waited all day for his audition on Britain’s Got Talent.

He arrived at the concert hall in London at 7am, even though the doors did not open until 9am. Being two hours early however did not put him at the front of the queue, and the smile of anticipation turned into a scowl when he saw the crowd around the entrance. Hundreds of contestants, both young and old, and boy did they look weird.

Jimmy came from a normal family, and lived in a normal street with other normal people. Looking at this group of strangely dresses misfits, normal did not have any part in their lives.

His first inclination had been to turn away and get the bus back home, but his determination to show his true talent to the obnoxious Simon Cowell helped him overcome his disgust at what he saw in front of him.

He forced himself to join the disorganised mob that he deemed an excuse for a queue and after a few minutes, he found himself wedged between an overweight middle-aged woman and an extremely tall teenager. The woman wore a bright yellow suit with red buttons, and volunteered the information that she had always wanted to run away to the circus to become a clown. Jimmy nodded and gave her a weak smile, a smile that masked his silent opinion that the woman was crazy. Fortunately, the tall teenager kept his ambitions to himself, though the fact he wore a frogman’s outfit did have Jimmy wondering.

When the doors opened a man holding a megaphone came out and bellowed a welcome to the rabble, and he tried to create some sort of order to the aforementioned queue. His attempt failed and as that was the last Jimmy heard of him, he could only assume the man went down at the weight of the pressing mob.

Eventually Jimmy obtained a ticket with the number 304 written on it in bold felt-tipped pen. “304” thought Jimmy, “three hundred and ruddy four, I'll be here hours”.

And it did take hours, hours of purgatory before his number came to the top of the list, hours surrounded by the strangest and most pathetic people that Jimmy had ever met.
Minutes later introductions were made to the two grinning imbeciles that he had seen many times before on the television screen on what seemed like every Saturday evening since he had been born. Suddenly there was a camera in his face as they asked him about props and music. Jimmy shook his head and answered the smiling duo, “I don’t need anything, just my wand and this black cloth”

Ant and Dec ushered the young magician onto the stage.

Jimmy was momentarily stunned at the size of the audience, and more so at the noise they made.

Pulling his thoughts together and taking a deep breath Jimmy walked to the centre of the stage and stood in front of the microphone.

“Hello, what’s your name?” asked one of the female judges.

“My name is Jimmy,” answered the young magician.

“And what are you going to do for us today?”

“I am going to make Simon disappear”

The crowd roared with laughter, the noise was quite overwhelming and Jimmy stepped back a few feet feeling quite dizzy.

Simon Cowell got to his feet waving his hands at the audience and spoke to Jimmy.

“OK, young Merlin, it seems like this unruly mob want to see your trick. Do you want me to come on stage, or are you going to magic me away from there”.

Jimmy regained his composure when he heard Simon’s pleasant voice, and saw his beaming smile.

“Can you come up here please,” said Jimmy.

Simon walked up the steps onto the stage and stood before Jimmy.

Jimmy unfolded the black cloth that he had been holding, it became bigger and bigger as it unfolded and the crowd roared with yet more laughter.

The young magician asked Simon to cover himself in the cloth, which he did without objection.

The crowd roared some more as they heard Simon shout out. “Hurry up Jimmy, I can’t see anything from under this cloth, and I'm scared of the dark”.

Jimmy took out his wand and waved it around while he mumbled a few well-chosen mystical words.

“Hubble, bubble, away from here, obnoxious Simon disappear”

Jimmy tapped the black cloth that was completely covering the self-professed “biggest man in show business”.

The black cloth crumpled to the stage in a small pile as the cheers and screams grew louder as the audience witnessed the disappearance of Simon.

Jimmy knelt down and refolded the black cloth as Ant and Dec strolled onto the stage both clapping in unison.

“Brilliant,” said Ant.

“Where is he”, said Dec.

“Gone” replied Jimmy...

as he walked off stage.

dregs in the teacup
it looks blacker today
perhaps it'd look better on the tablecloth

no
it stains a deep brown
splotchy, disorganised
it spreads so you can't control it

maybe it's better suited
for the whitewashed walls
trickling down the surface
did someone cry?

you can feel the bitter burn on your tongue when you pour it down the sink
maybe it's better left there
don't look

The delicate scent of your perfume soaked in my sweater
Or the feeling of the last kiss
Lingering
On my lips.
Or my skin's memory of your fingertips,
Or when my eyes fight a losing battle with sleep,
And then it's nothing but dreams of you.
All this
Is the impression you leave on me,
I am an art canvas.

You have a key to my house
Yet you're not my girlfriend.
It's a complicated relationship
And at the same time it's not.
I'm happiest at the bar on a Saturday night
But you always want to stay in.
I'm hungover on a Sunday
But you want to wake up and live.
You're a sweet and pleasant girl
And me, with my simple yet devilish ways,
I am a rogue.

I text you and you come over.
"That skirt," I say, opening the door for you, "I'm pretty sure it can cure cancer."
And with the rapidity of lightning,
You blush crimson.
Now in the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water.
"Is this what you were having for lunch?"
"Yes."
"Really? Frozen pizza and Kool-Aid?" you raise an eyebrow.
"Yes."
"You're so... I dunno... in general, you're just... I dunno... disorganised? clueless about life? stupid? weird? drunk with alarming regularity? irrational? stupid? Wait, did I already say that?"
"Yes you did. But wait, these are good qualities, right?"
"Yup. Just what I look for in a guy," you walk to me and kiss me on the lips,
We kiss some more,
Touching, rubbing,
"Just a sec," I pull away, "I'm sorry if I taste like pizza."
You look at me like I'm an idiot,"Just... shut up and kiss me!"
You're getting wet and excited
Like a child at a water park.
That's an odd comparison,
Well I guess
I am weird.

I'm inside of you,
But I am so convinced that it is not ***,
Such intensity,
Such deepening fulfillment.
No, that was not ***,
It was naked poetry.
I am a poet.