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Onze minutes et cinquante trois secondes
Soit onze fois soixante plus cinquante trois
qui font sept cent treize secondes
C'est le temps de latence que je te demande,
Alma, très lentement, en fa majeur
Entre une petite mort et une nouvelle
Le temps de prendre conscience
Sur rythme de 4/4
De la Beauté de la Renaissance
Sur un fond de Mahler
S'il suffit d'une seconde pour que naisse une étincelle
Et d'une autre seconde pour que le feu meure
Sept cent treize secondes
Quatre mots pour 3 chiffres
Le temps d'un Adagietto
Est suffisant et nécessaire
Pour nous recueillir
Et repartir de plus belle
En route pour de nouveaux ébats...
Terry Collett Mar 2018
He had brought
the Mahler 5th
and a bottle of wine.

He sat in her
dim lit lounge
on her white sofa.

She put the Mahler
on her hi-fi, poured
two glasses of wine.

He gazed around the room:
the paintings, low brow,
a few photos of her family.

She entered
with the glasses of wine
and put them down
on the table.

The music unfolded
in the room.

She sat beside him
picking up a glass.

He sipped his wine.

They lay back together
and kissed.

She talked of her son
a police officer.

He talked of the psychology
of ***** and the ****** revolution.

They drained their glasses.
She drew the curtains.

They undressed
ready for bed.

The third movement
of the symphony began;
the theme familiar
inside his head.
Trevor Locke Nov 2017
Myself and Mahler have a common mind,
an overwhelming God that Man can't find.
Thus, in the slow, long beating of our hearts
listeners to the soul can sing their parts,
when, in a mighty chorus, they submerge,
and from the common realms of world diverge.
We cry, whilst hanging from our mortal noose,
'Veni. Veni, creator spiritus
Apoem I wrote in 1966
Terry Collett Sep 2017
I was working in a factory
which made camping stuff;
I was busy in different departments,
when a young student started
(a little bit younger than I was )
on the Monday.

After a week or so
he stopped me and said:
I understand you like
classical music?

Yes, I do, I said, why?

Have you heard any
of Mahler's symphonies?
He said.

No, I haven't heard
his stuff,
I replied.

You want to get
his 7th symphony,
he said,
it's very good.

I'll try and get it,  
I said.

A few days later
he slit his wrists
with one of the knives
they used for cutting twine;
medics came
and took him off.

He never returned.

I bought Mahler's 1st symphony;
I gave the 7th a miss
just in case it had
an infectious kiss.
Benny at work in 1969
Line breaks within the piles
of weeping wombs, where the deer
and the antelope play Mozart
and polish with brooms,
when the maid has forgotten
her day off and you're left stranded,
perplexed within the certainty
of your own death, and the flowers
that were brought,
too late.

Keeping up with the cruelty
of Time is no small affair;
running ragged underneath
a vagrant moon that remains
impassive in the face of your
demise, counting backward
by tens, and the plumber has
mastered the scream of the violin.

It's better, perhaps,
to not look into the sky,
witnessing your life as it unravels
amid the flotsam of clouds
that melt like butter
with the passing of the sun,
fading like the day,
along with the failing
of your

R.C. Mandeville

— The End —