for Mike

Now, when I think of my favourite albums
I don't need to play them, know them too well,
can recall excerpts in my head. I don't want
noise or sound to interrupt my day, prefer
libraries of possibilities, memories lined up:
the past shelved in tattered record sleeves.

Couldn't find one particular LP this morning -
filing gone awry - so sat in the sun and let music
hang in the dust by the window, wondering where
that record has got to, imagining torn corners,
pops & scratches in the grooves, my small signature
scrawled on the back; yesterday's music today.

    © Rupert M Loydell

for Rupert
Vinyl spiralling back into memories, black in the pain
spun at the time by its sound, the ache then in some
bliss of discovery and now a pang of how far ago -
these records both played and chronicle in one
long line. Covers too delight and hurt in recalling:
outer, inner, gatefold, and almost origami in trying to
go beyond; how the liner notes tell stories about creating,
influence, histories - and writers wrapped up in their
own words to spin out of control. Always the music
pulling you back into the one true groove. I will
forever want their noise reminding me, the vicarious
haunt or a new thrill, and silences are interruptions
that need filling, the circle on a turntable to round
upon itself again and again in a constant of sound.

    © Mike Ferguson