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BEAT
It's not that
they lack competence,
the drummers
in the park, three of them
holding their
weft of rhythm tightly,
ten or fifteen
minutes at a stretch,
- it's just
their air of seeming to
assume that
all of us appreciate
the sound -
that they contribute to
some
quintessential atmosphere,
almost as if
they see themselves
as bearers of
tradition, maybe
even suppose
that one or two
of us might
try to figure out
the signature
- five/eight, ten/seven
- or whatever
subtle time
it is that
underscores the structure
of their
beat's monotony.
During the
pauses we can hear
the waterfall,
voices of children
at the
playground, distant birdsong
as a pallid
sun breaks through.
No one will
comment. Only a gull
out on the
water looses a volley
of harsh shrieking
- a primal impulse
happening to
speak for all.
BRAQUE AT
VARANGEVILLE
Here land
falls over cliffs
of white
impasto, spilling grey cobbles
for the
constant working of the sea.
South, from
his window,
farms spread
across the plateau,
black crows
gathering round the plough.
Graved
limestone, sculpted by wind,
flushwork of
nave walls, root
into place,
looking at long horizons;
squared stones
cluster all round
clamouring to
tell their various
tales of
memory and forgetting.
Do they aspire
to lawns
as smooth as
billiard tables
those houses
set among the trees?
Things can be
seen from many angles.
Birds move
between wide skies,
the chequered
earth and shifting sea.
Spread wings
rise on the up-draught.
Objects are
only real
in their relation
to each other.
TERRACE
Orange
twilight settles on
the Thursday
café as the sun
recedes in
marbled cloud
behind blank
building blocks
and shadows
creep out from
beneath the
pergola.
Silent on
their metal chairs
the couple
gaze beyond
an open menu,
dappled walls,
toward tall
cones of cypress.
They wait for
dark to hide
their faces,
entering that hiatus
where they
never need to order
food, make any
choice at all.
ANOTHER
CENTURY
The exuberance
of the People's Palace
has been
boarded up, rain-water drips
on faded
plush, brash proclamations of
graffiti
blazon walls, rats have free run.
Those marbled
foyers have been backdrop for
the
swearing-in of presidents, for
operas sung,
awards presented, children
who sang and
danced to the delight of crowds.
Its grand hall
also witnessed show-trials staged,
and this is
where stiff colonels once corralled
their
suspects, innovative minds were broken
and fine
sensibilities were crushed.
The forgotten
watchman is an old
disreputable
scribbler, long unpublished,
shambling
around deserted corridors,
sleeping on
bundled rags beneath the stairs.
At times he
will command the vacant stage,
ranting across
its empty stalls, by night
dream of some
condescending diva, of
her coming
down to share his tattered bed.
In truth he
would be happy if the drab
who works the
alley would come in between
him and the
dark, bring warmth enough to hold
at bay chill
spectres lingering in his recall -
echoes of
cheering, laughter, screams, that seem
caught in the
weft of spider webs, dangled
from crumbling
stucco, longing now only for
curt exorcism
of the wrecker's ball.
IN CONCERT
Is it no more
than the recollection
of those
fractured elements of violins,
in
long-familiar paintings, makes one
fancy that
some cubist geometry
attaches to
the action of massed strings?
Spirit of an
age of discipline, relieved
by ribaldry -
echoes through the organ's
pipework,
redolent of lost architectural
order. The austere ranks of spires
and steeplets
triumphant in grey rain;
and,
reassuring as the smallest lights
against
residual forest, so warm smells
of candlewax
assert themselves among
the pungency
of fresh-cut fir.
A maestro
rendered awkward by applause.
Something,
now, drier, lighter, something
of the salon,
of the painted cornice,
movement to
the interior. The search
is always for
the same key, yet it can
never be the
same door it will open.
Dust in red
carpets,...conturbatus est...
petals
whispering in a hall of mirrors;
...in tenebrae...a young head drawn
against the shoulder, tartan shirt, toying
with sleep,
though this no lullaby
How gentle the
trombones; ...in lucem...
how
imperturbable the even glow
of cool blue
screens. Do we, at last,
glimpse pastures? green
invitations
through the thickets of dry sound?
© Tony
Lucas 2012
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