It always intrigued him how a group of people entering a room for the first time made decisions about where to sit. He stood quietly by a window to give the impression that he was looking out on a wilderness of garden that fell steeply away to a barrier of trees. But he was looking at them, all fifteen of them taking in their clothes, their movements, their manners, their voices (and the not-voices of the inevitably silent ones), their bags and computers. One of them approached him and, he smiling broadly and kindly, put his hand up as a signal as if to say ‘not just now, not yet, don’t worry’, or something like that.

This smile seemed to work, and he thought suddenly of the woman he loved saying ‘you have such a lovely smile; the lines around your eyes crinkle sweetly when you smile.’ And he was warmed by the thought of her dear nature and saw, as in a photo playing across his nervous mind, the whole of her lying on the daisied grass when, as ‘just’ lovers, they had visited this place for an opening, when he could hardly stop looking at her, always touching her gently in wonder at her particular beauty. In the garden they had read together from Alice Oswald’s Dart, the river itself just a short walk away . . .

Listen,
a
lark
spinning
around
one
note
splitting
and
mending
­it

As he finally turned towards his class and walked to a table in front of the long chalkboard, half a dozen hands went up. He had to do the smile again and use both hands, a damping down motion, to suggest this what not the time for questions – yet. He gathered his notebook and went to the grand piano. He leafed through his book, thick, blue spiral-bound with squared paper, and, imagining himself as Mitsuko Uchida starting Beethoven’s 4th Piano Concerto, fingers placed on the keys and then leaning his body forward to play just a single chord. He held the chord down a long time until the resonance had died away.

‘That’s my daily chord’, he said, ‘Now write yours.’

Again, more hands went up. He ignored them. He gave them a few minutes, before gesturing to a young woman at the back to come and play her chord. Beside the piano was a small table with a sheet of manuscript paper and a Post-It sticker that said, ‘Please write your chord and your name here’. And, having played her chord, she wrote out her chord and name – beautifully.

He knelt on the floor beside a young man (they were all young) at the front of the class. He liked to kneel when teaching, so he was the same height, or lower, as the person he as addressing. It was perhaps an affectation, but he did it never the less.

‘Tell me about that chord,’ he said, ‘A description please’.
‘I need to hear it again.’
‘OK’, there was a slight pause, ‘now let’s hear yours.’
‘I haven’t written one’, the reply had a slightly aggressive edge, a ‘why are you embarrassing me?’ edge.
‘OK’, he said gently, and waved an invitation to the girl next to him. She had no trouble in doing what was asked.

Next, he asked a tall, dark young man how many notes he had in his chord, and receiving the answer four, asked if he, the young man, would chose four voices to sing it. This proved rather controversial, but oh so revealing – as he knew it would be. Could these composers sing? It would appear not. There was a lot of uncertainty about how it could be done. Might they sound the notes out at the piano before singing (he had shaken his head vigorously)? But when they did, indeed performed it well and with conviction, he congratulated them warmly.

‘Hand your ‘chord’ to the person next to you on your right. Now add a second chord to the chord you have in front of you please.’

Several minutes later, the task done, he asked them to pass the chords back to their original owners. And so he continued adding fresh requirements and challenges. – score the chords for string quartet, for woodwind quartet (alto-flute, cor anglais, horn, baritone saxophone – ‘transposition hell !’ said one student), write the chords as jazz chord symbols, in tablature for guitar, with the correct pedal positions for harp.

Forty minutes later he felt he was gathering what he needed to know about this very disparate group of people. There were some, just a few, who refused to enter into the exercise. One slight girl with glasses and a blank face attempted to challenge him as to why such a meaningless exercise was being undertaken. She would have no part in it – and left the room. He simply said, ‘May I have your chord please?’ and, to his surprise, she agreed, and with some grace went to the table by the piano and wrote it out.

A blond Norwegian student said ‘May we discuss what we are doing? I am here to learn Advanced Composition. This does not seem to be Advanced Composition.’

‘Gladly’, he said, ‘in ten minutes when this exercise is concluded, and we have taken a short break.’ And so the exercise was concluded, and he said, ‘Let’s take 15 minutes break. Please leave your chords on the desk in front of you.’

With that announcement almost everyone got out their mobile phones, some leaving the room. He opened the windows on what now promised to be a warm, sunny day. He went then to each desk and photographed each chord sheet, to the surprise and amusement of those who had remained in the room. One declined to give him permission to do so. He shrugged his shoulders and went on to the next table. He could imagine something of the conversation outside. He’d been here before. He’d had students make formal complaints about ‘his methods’, how these approaches to ‘self-learning’ were degrading and embarrassing, belittling even. I’m still teaching he thought after 30 years, so there must be something in it. But he had witnessed in those thirty years a significant decline in musical techniques, much of which he laid at the feet of computer technology. He thought of this kind of group as a drawing class, doing something that was once common in art school, facing that empty page every morning, learning to make a mark and stand by it. He had asked for a chord, and as he looked at the results, played them in his head. Some had just written a text-book major chord, others something wildly impossible to hear, but just some revealed themselves as composers writing chords that demonstrated purpose and care. Though he could tell most of them didn’t get it, they would. By the end of the week they’d be writing chords like there was no tomorrow, beautiful, surprising, wholly inspiring, challenging, better chords than he would ever write. Now he had to help them towards that end, to help them understand that to be an  ‘advanced composer’ might be likened to being an ‘advanced motorist’ (he recalled from his childhood the little badges drivers once put proudly on their bumpers – when there were such things – now there’s a windscreen sticker). To become an advanced motorist meant learning to be continually aware of other motorists, the state of the road, what your own vehicle was doing, constantly looking and thinking ahead, refining the way you approached a roundabout, pulled up at a junction. He liked the idea of transferring that to music.

What he found disturbing was that there were a body of students who believed that a learning engagement with a professional composer, someone who made his living, sustained his life with his artistic practice, had to be a confrontation. The why preceded, and almost obliterated, the how.

In the discussion that followed the break this became all too clear. He let them speak, and hardly had to answer or intervene because almost immediately student countered student. There evolved an intriguing analysis of what the class had entered into, which he summarised on a flip chart. He knew he had some supporters, people who clearly realised something of the worth and interest of the exercises. He also had a number of detractors, some holding quasi-political agendas about ‘what composition was’. After 20 minutes or so he intervened and attempted a conclusion.

‘The first rule of teaching is to understand and be sympathetic to a student’s past experience and thus to their learning needs, which in almost every situation will be different and various. This means for a teacher holding to an idea of what might, in this case, constitute ‘an advanced composer’. I hold to such an idea. I’ve thought about this ‘idea’ quite deeply and my aim is to provide learning opportunities to let as many of you as possible be enriched by that idea. You are all composers, but there is no consensus about what being a composer is, what the ‘practice of composition’ is. There used to be, probably until the 1970s, but that is no more. ‘

‘You may think I was disrespectful in not wishing to engage in any debate from the outset. I had to find a way to understand your experience and your learning needs. In 40 minutes I learnt a great deal. My desire is that you all go away from each session knowing you have stretched your practice as composers, through some of the skills and activities that make up such a practice. You all know what they are, but I intend to add to these by taking excursions into other creative practices that I have studied and myself been enriched by. I also want to stretch you intellectually – as some of my teachers stretched me, and whose example still runs through all I do.

Over the next seven days you are to compose music for a remarkable ensemble of professional musicians. I see myself as helping you (if necessary) towards that goal, by setting up situations that may act as a critical net in which to catch any problems and difficulties. I know we are going to fight a little over some of my suggestions, the use of computer notation I’m sure will be one, but I have my reasons, and such reasons contribute towards what I see as you all developing a holistic view of composing music as both a skill and an art form. I also happen to believe, as Imogen Holst once said of Benjamin Britten, that composing music is a way of life . . .

With that he walked to the window and looked out across that wilderness of green now bathed in sunshine. He felt a presence by his shoulder. Turning he suddenly recognised standing before him a young man, bearded now, and yes, he knew who he was. At a symposium in Birmingham the previous summer he had talked warmly and openly to this composer and jazz pianist in a break between sessions, and just a few weeks previously in London after a concert this young man had approached him with a warm greeting. Empathy flowed between them and he was grateful as he shook his hand that this could be. She had been with him at that concert and he remembered afterwards trying to recall his name for her and where they’d met. She was holding his arm as they walked down Exhibition Road to their hotel and he was so full of her presence and her beauty no wonder his memory had failed him.

‘Brilliant,’ the young man said, ‘Thank you. Just so much to think about.’

And he could say nothing, suddenly exhausted by it all.

days are getting longer
colors, warm and bright
as flowers bloom,
I wonder
Is it spring outside

sweat and tastes of icecream
sunlight in my back
burning nights and feverish dreams
it's summer in my flat

rain and whirling, falling leafes
tea and halloween
wandering birds and deepest grieve
it's autum so it seems

damping breath and snow
scarfs and woolen coats
powdered, white wonderworld
and winter's shadows grow

The cathedral bells rang as Sarah’s heart raced like a bullet
Today was when Joe would arrive; waiting she was for his embrace
Whilst, Richard sat solemnly then stood and struggled
Trying to grapple the names of the Apostles

There Sylvia, as Richard would call her: grandma
Brewed her special tea; the fragrance brought Richard towards her
He recited the names of the Apostles-“Saint Peter, Saint John, and Saint um….”
The last name tried he hard to pull
“He is invoked in helpless situations” his grandma prompted
Without reluctance he exclaimed-“Saint Jude!”

Sarah the mother entered and Richard flung into her arms
Without much ado Joe the father jived into the hall
All of them hugged and kissed like mad, and Sylvia the grandmother sent a little prayer to the Lord
She does that a lot, was brought up in a pretentious Christian family

The Bishop preached the Gospel; all rose for the Morning Prayer to be sung
Seeing him standing there singing in the choir made her heart burst with joy
Her little Richard singing the prayer; when all was done Richard walked hand in hand with his grandmother
And every night she recited him a verse of the holy Bible

Joe’s love for Sarah was taciturn
Sarah’s, more strident in approach
And whenever mother talked Richard felt
That a semblance tarnished his father’s soul

Five years after, the sound of the Shofar made his ears hurt
The sound almost eerie made his chest burn
Tears incessantly slipped damping his black suit
His mother was Jewish, the Synagogue echoing the sound
Of the Shofar shouted for itself
Making him realize the real reason behind his father’s reticence

In the spring of ’58 his father left
With a woman Richard would have never suspected
But that was not all spring had to offer
Richard fell in love with the girl of his dreams
She reminded him of his mother when she smiled
But glamour supposedly overpowered this sweet joy

And one wintry night Richard fled from his house
Leaving his grandmother to cry
She knows not where he is
For he never returned to his only lover alive

Roaming he is in the filthy streets of Nogales, Sonora
The a Capella that the Armenian Church nearby played wracked his nerves
The sermons that he’d heard over the years long back lost their effervescence
As the faiths Judaism, Christianity, Islam all seemed a cruel joke
Follower of Satan some call him when he walks down the road

Had it not been for the heinous conspiracies of the world
Poor Richard would have still loved the divinity
But sick he was of the demons of the world’s and his own
His ingenuity, innocence, spontaneity were taken away by the supreme
His heart no more hurts as madman he hath become

But somewhere in the abyss formed in his heart
He wants to believe the priests for once and for all
But the ineptness of the cause restraints him each time
Once was a devotee now a Pagan he’s forced to be for life

~Manu M.

There is nothing but the chimes to remind me, a clock face full of good times of sad sometimes not times, but the chimes hold no memory, they all ring inside me like a dishcloth wrung dry and only the damping of tears reminds me again of the how and the why and the crying out of fears, so many things in one boat.

Nothing but the dull throb hung on my chest like a watch fob and the chime, the chimes, cutting into and out of the day, no time and time's no friend until the echo of time starts to end and the chimes fade away.

And then we wind up the spring and step into beginning again, we are the hands on the clock face keeping pace with the clock and time is the lock that we open then lock and the chimes are the stock in trade.

Countless witnesses saw them materialize
in the late evening skies.
Not any type of planes seen before
no earthly flying machines!
About six is what seemed perfectly clear
each coming uncomfortably near.

Other sightings reported but not like these
a dazzling display as one dived.
Crashing with an explosion then ball of fire
fire engines were deployed.
Tackling the immense blaze they were puzzled
being told any talk was muzzled.

Damping the hot embers they found creatures
never seen here before!
Alive on the burning scorched ground.
small with big red eyes.
Clawed hands and horns on the head.
were they something to dread?

The firemen captured one in a net
what was happening here?
They took it to the hospital injured
not wanting to touch.
Medical staff repulsed at its vision
what could be done the decision!

The other lights went out and were gone
a curfew then imposed.
Stories were rife of devils in the wild
the government denied it was so!
Mistaken identity the reason given
once again the truth hidden!

From the start the military took over
like Roswell facts changed quickly!
Reliable sources gagged or somehow died
rumors of a plane taking evidence
Out of the country to a specific destination
adding disturbing speculation!

So the mystery deepens what is going on
people know something is wrong!

WHAT!

As these were likely the alien crafts cargo
not the crew so the conspiracy will grow!

The Foureyed Poet

I, sitting on my porch, all world around
The drop upon the roof, such damping air,
The plop from the metal falls to the ground.
Magnificent such sight fills with despair
When white electric strike, silenced fury,
A rumble loud so fills my ringing ears.
Above all, evergreen that stood as jury,
A misty sky, lighted and looks, appears,
To sight, but dark arrives too hard.
The pattering is strong and now comes bleak.
The wind, so sharp and crisp, has played a card,
And bends the stem, the leaf, and blows to creak.
I smell old air, fat crickets far do hum.
Oh yes, this will not stay, the cold will come.

Your touch on me,
firm, protective,
searching
me out.

Trying to touch my
every detail that has
been covered with
the forest's leaves.

Your fingertips so
tender and soft
against my skin.

Your hands so
delicate as they
unknotted the
weeds and seeds
tangled up in
my hair.

Our thoughts drenched
us in love in that moment.
Our thoughts of passion
and lust began to turn
us on.

Making our hearts
pound so strong making
us both nervous and
hard.

Your heat warmed my
body that has been
cold for a long time.

Your hands covered
my chest and rose from
being exposed to the
wind and these woods.

Is it destiny that sent
you here ? Is it fate that
let us kiss and touch ?
Is love that allowed our
hearts to sing along the
same song ?

The leaves and vines
giggled when your lips
brushed against my
blushing cheeks.

The sky sighed and
weeped tears of joy on
us damping the soil
beneath our bare
feet.

Our kisses and hugs
made nature gaze in
awe. It made nature
shout out for an
encore.

While the birds above
placed a crown of the
brightest leaves upon
my head.

You kneeled down on
both your knees , kissed
my hand and proposed
to me in front of the
trees and the fallen
leaves* ~

Perforations on a notebook,
Variations on a theme
Accusations in her writing,
Bad sensations in her dream.

Keeping up her outer image,
Dressing down her deep turmoil
Showing up for work and home life,
Damping down the blood that boils.

Inventory of her lifetime
Crooked story, twisted prose
Imagery of her writing,
Stationary English rose.

Holding still for family portrait
Holding fast to moral code,
Trying still to uphold values,
Thinking faster than she knows.

Ever trying, always failing,
All the while succeeding, yet
Ever after, all her chances
Always bring her past regrets

To the surface ever higher
To the eyes that burn with tears -
To the past her back is turned now,
Face to the future's outstretched years.

Raindrops
I lifted my head to face the drizzling rain
Little streaks in the background
Wetting my cheeks, damping my hair, soaking my clothes

Rain clouds overhead
Grey cotton puffs in the vast and wide sky
Shielding the light, bringing the cold with them
I stood in the pouring rain, letting the chill sink into my bones
Like needles boring into my joints
Do I have an umbrella?
Yes, yes I do.
It's in my hand, waiting to be opened.
Do I want to use the umbrella?
Perhaps.

But the rain makes me feel
Even if the only thing I feel is pain
I'd want to feel alive

Clinging on the elusive cliff
I see nothing that might hurt beneath

With not much that is close by
I'll be taking my sweet time,
Trying not to fall to feel the sky

I might do everything, or nothing much,
A cloud of inertia I'm not hurrying to reach.
All is left is a huge sigh
Out the shell I was shielded by

I was dressing colorful to be alive,
Now swimming through the waves,
Heating up my ways,
Walking slowly, racking up the pace,
Bumping on rocks, damping the grace,

Playing the melody,

Relaxing the agony.

Day 1: we meet each other for the first time. Your smile is so bright it can even shine through the darkest times. I'm walking with my head held high trying to disguise the tears coming to my eyes because the beauty from your pure heart is tearing my logic apart.... we speak and your voice is so comforting so I try to hang on to reality but you pushed it away with just a snap of your fingers. Nice meeting you is all that leaves your lips after our short chatter and I stroll away damping myself for not remembering who I am...
Day 2: I see you again. You say I want to get to know you more. The thoughts in the back of my head tell me to push you away but I let you pull in and we have countless conversations That day and you seem to be taking a liking to me and I like you ad well but you getting to close is not wise. But I push that thought to the back of my mind. We exchange phone numbers and we talk about life later that night and I had to fight myself to hang up after you fell asleep. Stop I tell myself but I know I cant....
Day 3: you suggest we hang out and I accepted with some doubt but it turned out to be fun hanging out with you talking about everything but nothing at the same time I wish you knew how much I was falling for you but I cursed my self for even thinking that way... we go back to your house and watch a scary movie with the lights out and I'm hoping to make a good impression on your family who's been do nice to me since we got here. It's time for me to go and you take me home and walk me to my door. I placed a kiss apon your cheek and said thanks for hanging out with me and with that I ran upstairs and cursed myself for making you like me more...
Day 4: you come over to see if I'm awake I come to the door and the first thing you say is hey. I let you in and I get dressed and I say what do you want to do today. You say let's go walk around and have fun and play so I put on shoes and we start walking you say why so quiet and I say nothing and with nothing else said you ask me out...I say yes.. and you hug me and I say it's getting late I'm gonna walk home and I kissed your lips and ran home. Getting there I started crying knowing I set the seeds that will **** you...
Day 5: your sick so we talk on the phone and you tell me I love you and I say I love you too... with that you said let's hang out agaim. And with that we meet in the rain and you said I missed you since yesterday I say well I'm here now and you hug me tight and tell me I'm the only thing that helps you sleep at night and that you need me... I wish I have never heard that
Day 6: we wake up on the phone with an I love you and throughout the day our love started to deteriorate and you say I love you and I break your heart by saying I don't want you and we need to break up and with that I walked away to let you fall apart that same day....
Day 7 your final day: you call me all day saying I want you back and I will change I just want things to stay the same. I ignore you knowing this was what was to come. You lose hope and write a letter to those who care saying I was the piece you needed to stay here. With that you stole you own life.... I cried knowing I was the poison that polluted your mind with me and the illusion of my love I knew I was to be your destruction I knew I was the unlovable so I broke your heart to make you go away but I broke you in the process. I knew this would happen the poison spread after the first kiss from my ice cold lips...

rain
damping everything
pain
i can hardly feel a thing

the pressure
push me to be sure
nothing in me is pure
and you don't have any cure

i don't want to live anymore
i don't want to fail like before
i don't want to be called *****
and thrown to the floor

i did the test
i've tried my best
more than i could expressed

i just want to sleep
dive into the deep
forgetting all the things i can't keep
all i have to do is leap

i just want to die
i don't want to lie
so let me cry
let me fly

Dear silence,
Thanks,
For always accompanying me even when I'm lying half slept, or half dead on my bed.
For being a blabbermouth always,
You've a lot to say, and
I'm your addicted listener.
For getting deep into the bleakness of my heart,
And making room for yourself,
Amidst all the crowded voices and thoughts on my head.
And then making your way to my eyes, and get drowned in their haziness.
Helping me gulp down the screech and hide my face against the pillow
With millions of emotional turmoils and crisis,
In the minute sniffles of
Choices made and opportunities lost.
For being around me at my continuous gaze at the flickering light and sickly falling scurfs from my ceiling,
Due the damping weather outside and the one inside my heart.
And at the knock at my door, or heart;
Coming down to my lips, and curling them in the most pretentious ways in between the overstays of the conversation,
With the one before me
And the one inside me.
You've been a beautiful companion throughout,
And your unwillingness for me to requite you the same
Makes you the lover most sacrificing.
Your selfish lover,
Aparajita Tripathi.

Air heavy as a stone
Fear always hardening the lung
Smiles were taken off and gone
From the sweet heart where they hung

Building a wall made with glances
You need to shield all your senses
And their cold words, they hurt the most
Take your whole mind and get it lost

Pain at your home, pain at your school
So scared you can never break the rule
Raindrops slips in the cracks of your shell
Damping your eyes in ways you cannot tell
And as those silent tears roll down your cheek
I wonder will you ever find all that you seek

If there's a warmth that I can bring
If there's a thing that I can do
If there's a song you'd like to sing
I'd be glad to sing it with you
And in your head put back your crown
Whatever happens, I'll never let you down.

A light never noticed
Until it is gone
Barely aware of its fading
A reflection diminished
To the dimness
              of moonless night fog
With no intention or awareness
Behind the dark circles
              of black with no gloss
                       becoming a lifeless gray
A damping of the fire
That propelled this life
         Through time
           Through anger
             Through pain and love
Now a smoldering
                  of eventual ash
Eyes once blue
Having nothing
                  behind the lenses
And little recognition
             of a world once inviting
                        now fear filled and confusing
Sight
      used only for survival
              and the next unsteady step
                      Taken only
                              with an aiding, guiding hand
A light never noticed
Until it is gone
When my father
      No longer knew my face
But at times
      Knew that he should

The tongue no man can tame

language is absorbed into the wild tongue
then it forgets
the taste
of uncut gems and steak Tartar

raw
word tasters are rare, nu-ance is hinted at while

nu is hog- tied in a mathematic con un drum un mazing
a knot in the fiber string theory needs to work

it's wicked cool,
what an untamed tongue can do

with global ****** cybernetic foam
damping down tamped down sludge from
early efforts

nothing can be hidden in truth,
the act of ac
ception
freedom; when you know,
like re-cognize this
troubling
idea

and say I got past you, you are unbelievable.

True? It's a sense, we can all feel it. Like,
the empowering pushing force
which re
deems idle words worth reading, for the rush.

I regaled my land with thunderings of merriment          
lighting my dark chuckles with bright flash of wit,          
I tickled trees, seas, oceans, till my joke was spent          
then rested to gather strengths to blow my season's blitz.          
Now I blast you foul storms your puny ambitions befit,          
as I reign over you tempestuously  crack and clap          
your puny stone buildings I will blast and split          
and rend your clothes and silly flags to scraps, as they flap...          
        
I blame you, you blustering creatures, for downpouring of my ire          
you forever chasing seasons of ease,          
climbing up for the secret of eternal fire,        
to power your life and turn my gales to balmy breeze...    
How dare you make my clouds weep, with stormy seeds,          
I am the life spreading Storm, you cannot control,          
I view you shower as a damping turbulent disease          
but, it may be, you do have a role?          
        
I will blow you down to a gory smear          
across your burnt and blasted arid lands,          
till nothing remains not even a tear          
then scour you gone with my whirlwinding sands.        
Your poisoned flesh, not fit for Earth's viands,          
but your bones, your dry bleached bones        
will nourish my green and pleasant sphere,          
till then I shall weather your howling, squalid, moans.

When it rains, the cold air bleeds. The world shines beneath growing edges. Plants and people blossom, but only for a moment. The rain lasts, not long but long enough. Buildings now drowned with the salt liquid from the sky, drains down along the roads. Cars speeding quickly through the streets, roar and roar through the blessing. Damping and washing over those, unfortunately bearing no umbrella.