New Exercise/Response Poem3
Happy Hallowe'en! 
In celebration of the day, this is my response piece to Modest Mussorgsky's 'The Hut on Fowl's Legs' from his Pictures at an Exhibition suite for piano, orchestrated by Maurice Ravel,
It runs into the final movement slightly, but is otherwise a good recording!
I wrote the poem with my best friend Leo, who sadly died last June, from Covid. He gave me the idea of the letter
Dear M. Mussorgsky, please forgive this letter from a simple clerk
and pardon too its contents, which I find myself so deathly dark;
but something strange has happened, at our grand Academy, last night,
concerning Hartmann’s clock – I must confess, I took a dreadful fright!
You may recall, it is my task, to check the pieces every eve,
we have our signs, ‘Don’t touch!’ ‘Stand back!’, you know, but you would not believe
the visitors that wish to interact, they say, with all the art,
and so I take some time to clean and tidy, make it nice and smart.
So yesterday, I see the clock design is crooked in its place,
I sigh, I start to cross the room… and then, my heart begins to race!
for all at once a ticking sounds – TIC-TOC, TIC-TOC – so loud and fast,
I start to cross the room again… and then, my friend, I am aghast!
It seems, I shrink! or does the clock grow? even now, I can't be sure,
I drift towards it in a trance, the rhythm is a constant lure,
towards those fowl’s feet, all that bronze, now three dimensions, base to tip,
a work I love these past two months – but now fear holds me in its grip!
The clock begins to strike the hour, the midnight, BONG!, it sounds twelve times,
and at the twelfth the clockface starts to melt, so resonant the chimes!
The inside of the hut now looms – and then I see, the witch herself!
She cooks upon her stove and there are human entrails on her shelf!
I shriek! She turns and sees me with her evil eyes that glow blood red!
I turn and run – I know that if she catches me I shall be dead!
I claw through forest, all the trees, so thin and spindly, yet so dense!
My hands, my arms, are raw and sore with scratches from this prickly fence!
I hear her laugh – ‘Wah! hah hah haargh!’ – and soon, ‘Vroom! Vroom!’, her engine purrs,
the loathsome mortar that she rides, throughout these woods, these leaves, these burs,
with pestle as a rudder, steering swift, so she can catch her prey!
My heart is beating fit to burst, yet still I run, to get away!
So thick, these trees, she loses me! The engine fades to far ‘flunk, flunk’,
and I take rest, beside a pool, against a tree with smoother trunk,
I do not know this place, I cannot think, how I shall venture home,
I feel a deep despair – my tears fall fast upon the woodland loam.
But then, two little owls alight, upon a branch above my seat,
and call, ‘Do not be sad, dear friend; we bring you bread and cheese to eat!’
A small door opens in the tree trunk – reaching in, I find a box,
and there is bread, six star-shaped slices, and some cheese, six circle blocks!
I thank the owls, they pirouette, and then I make a hearty meal,
while all around me forest friends come dance with high balletic zeal,
a pair of bears, a troupe of foxes, badgers, hedgehogs, squirrels too,
the owls spin, twirl, they clap their wings, they sing with joy, ‘T’wit t’woo! T’wit t’woo!’
Yet suddenly, ‘Wah! hah hah haargh!’, ‘Vroom! Vroom!’ oh no, the witch is back!
The forest friends all dash to hide, though it is me she would attack,
announcing as she flies her ill intentions, all her bloody lust –
'I’ll flay thy skin, I’ll cook thy flesh, I’ll grind thy bones to dust dust dust!’
Again, I run, through thickset forest, with the witch close at my feet,
until she drives me to her hut – ‘Aha! It’s time to cook my meat!’
I scream at what awaits me, pitchfork, cauldron, stove and patterned plate,
a hand falls on my shoulder – but V. Stasov’s voice, ‘It’s rather late.’
I startle, I am slumped below the frame, by human feet, my boss,
he frowns, ‘What are you doing, Grekhem?’ and his voice is deep and cross!
I try to tell him, but my throat is sore, so all I do is squeak,
he sighs, ‘Another drunken clerk?’, but then I cough and I can speak.
I tell him of the midnight chime and then the hut, the witch, the wood,
the desperate running through the trees, the animals, so kind and good!
He utters, ‘Hmm…’ – he thinks I lie – ‘Go home, you fool, and don’t return!’
I show him wounds upon my hands, but, ‘Home!’ he orders, very stern.
Please help me, M. Mussorgsky, for I need this job, you know this well,
I was so happy when you recommend me, more than words can tell,
all February and this month, I love to care for Hartmann’s work,
but now, it seems, I have no job – V. Stasov thinks I am a berk!
I bruised my limbs, I lost two toenails running from the wretched witch,
in dreams I hurtle through the trees – my cuts heal well, but how they itch!
Yet though I fear, I long for the Academy, for Great Kiev,
the Gate, you know, and all the rest, sincerely, Grekhem Turgenev.
- - -
I've got a picture of the hut somewhere; I'll post it later today.
This is just an exercise, so no need to critique
In celebration of the day, this is my response piece to Modest Mussorgsky's 'The Hut on Fowl's Legs' from his Pictures at an Exhibition suite for piano, orchestrated by Maurice Ravel,
It runs into the final movement slightly, but is otherwise a good recording!
I wrote the poem with my best friend Leo, who sadly died last June, from Covid. He gave me the idea of the letter
Dear M. Mussorgsky, please forgive this letter from a simple clerk
and pardon too its contents, which I find myself so deathly dark;
but something strange has happened, at our grand Academy, last night,
concerning Hartmann’s clock – I must confess, I took a dreadful fright!
You may recall, it is my task, to check the pieces every eve,
we have our signs, ‘Don’t touch!’ ‘Stand back!’, you know, but you would not believe
the visitors that wish to interact, they say, with all the art,
and so I take some time to clean and tidy, make it nice and smart.
So yesterday, I see the clock design is crooked in its place,
I sigh, I start to cross the room… and then, my heart begins to race!
for all at once a ticking sounds – TIC-TOC, TIC-TOC – so loud and fast,
I start to cross the room again… and then, my friend, I am aghast!
It seems, I shrink! or does the clock grow? even now, I can't be sure,
I drift towards it in a trance, the rhythm is a constant lure,
towards those fowl’s feet, all that bronze, now three dimensions, base to tip,
a work I love these past two months – but now fear holds me in its grip!
The clock begins to strike the hour, the midnight, BONG!, it sounds twelve times,
and at the twelfth the clockface starts to melt, so resonant the chimes!
The inside of the hut now looms – and then I see, the witch herself!
She cooks upon her stove and there are human entrails on her shelf!
I shriek! She turns and sees me with her evil eyes that glow blood red!
I turn and run – I know that if she catches me I shall be dead!
I claw through forest, all the trees, so thin and spindly, yet so dense!
My hands, my arms, are raw and sore with scratches from this prickly fence!
I hear her laugh – ‘Wah! hah hah haargh!’ – and soon, ‘Vroom! Vroom!’, her engine purrs,
the loathsome mortar that she rides, throughout these woods, these leaves, these burs,
with pestle as a rudder, steering swift, so she can catch her prey!
My heart is beating fit to burst, yet still I run, to get away!
So thick, these trees, she loses me! The engine fades to far ‘flunk, flunk’,
and I take rest, beside a pool, against a tree with smoother trunk,
I do not know this place, I cannot think, how I shall venture home,
I feel a deep despair – my tears fall fast upon the woodland loam.
But then, two little owls alight, upon a branch above my seat,
and call, ‘Do not be sad, dear friend; we bring you bread and cheese to eat!’
A small door opens in the tree trunk – reaching in, I find a box,
and there is bread, six star-shaped slices, and some cheese, six circle blocks!
I thank the owls, they pirouette, and then I make a hearty meal,
while all around me forest friends come dance with high balletic zeal,
a pair of bears, a troupe of foxes, badgers, hedgehogs, squirrels too,
the owls spin, twirl, they clap their wings, they sing with joy, ‘T’wit t’woo! T’wit t’woo!’
Yet suddenly, ‘Wah! hah hah haargh!’, ‘Vroom! Vroom!’ oh no, the witch is back!
The forest friends all dash to hide, though it is me she would attack,
announcing as she flies her ill intentions, all her bloody lust –
'I’ll flay thy skin, I’ll cook thy flesh, I’ll grind thy bones to dust dust dust!’
Again, I run, through thickset forest, with the witch close at my feet,
until she drives me to her hut – ‘Aha! It’s time to cook my meat!’
I scream at what awaits me, pitchfork, cauldron, stove and patterned plate,
a hand falls on my shoulder – but V. Stasov’s voice, ‘It’s rather late.’
I startle, I am slumped below the frame, by human feet, my boss,
he frowns, ‘What are you doing, Grekhem?’ and his voice is deep and cross!
I try to tell him, but my throat is sore, so all I do is squeak,
he sighs, ‘Another drunken clerk?’, but then I cough and I can speak.
I tell him of the midnight chime and then the hut, the witch, the wood,
the desperate running through the trees, the animals, so kind and good!
He utters, ‘Hmm…’ – he thinks I lie – ‘Go home, you fool, and don’t return!’
I show him wounds upon my hands, but, ‘Home!’ he orders, very stern.
Please help me, M. Mussorgsky, for I need this job, you know this well,
I was so happy when you recommend me, more than words can tell,
all February and this month, I love to care for Hartmann’s work,
but now, it seems, I have no job – V. Stasov thinks I am a berk!
I bruised my limbs, I lost two toenails running from the wretched witch,
in dreams I hurtle through the trees – my cuts heal well, but how they itch!
Yet though I fear, I long for the Academy, for Great Kiev,
the Gate, you know, and all the rest, sincerely, Grekhem Turgenev.
- - -
I've got a picture of the hut somewhere; I'll post it later today.
This is just an exercise, so no need to critique
Ah... it's good to exercise 
This poem is inspired by Lange, 'Nearly Home', hence its title. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0bxr81u5hE
Nearly home
March 2021
The world is different now. It isn’t grey
although the day is cloudy. I get up
and wash and dress. It’s easier. Hooray!
My hands, less swollen, cope with things. A cup,
a spoon, a plate, a knife, for tea and toast
with proper butter. Dad rings, just to check
that I’m still on for having Sunday roast;
I am. I’m not, today, a total wreck.
He turns up and I’m ready. Well, we are:
the colombine companion Word-Bird’s back
and Dad is pleased. He bird-talks, quite bizarre,
but that’s the love. She’s in his haversack
and looking forward to the drive ahead;
“It should be very pleasant,” she explains,
and I agree. I’ve spent eight months in bed
with ghastly Arthur Ritis and his pains.
Vrrr-oom! We’re off! Dad’s whistling to himself
as usual, and tapping on the wheel;
the dashboard makes a handy little shelf
for Word-Bird, looking forward to the meal.
And all the fields are flying by, the sheep
are smiling as they stop and graze and roam;
I feel awakened from the long low sleep
that almost claimed my life. I’m nearly home.
(^v^) <-- Word-Bird, smiling
This poem is inspired by Lange, 'Nearly Home', hence its title. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0bxr81u5hE
Nearly home
March 2021
The world is different now. It isn’t grey
although the day is cloudy. I get up
and wash and dress. It’s easier. Hooray!
My hands, less swollen, cope with things. A cup,
a spoon, a plate, a knife, for tea and toast
with proper butter. Dad rings, just to check
that I’m still on for having Sunday roast;
I am. I’m not, today, a total wreck.
He turns up and I’m ready. Well, we are:
the colombine companion Word-Bird’s back
and Dad is pleased. He bird-talks, quite bizarre,
but that’s the love. She’s in his haversack
and looking forward to the drive ahead;
“It should be very pleasant,” she explains,
and I agree. I’ve spent eight months in bed
with ghastly Arthur Ritis and his pains.
Vrrr-oom! We’re off! Dad’s whistling to himself
as usual, and tapping on the wheel;
the dashboard makes a handy little shelf
for Word-Bird, looking forward to the meal.
And all the fields are flying by, the sheep
are smiling as they stop and graze and roam;
I feel awakened from the long low sleep
that almost claimed my life. I’m nearly home.
(^v^) <-- Word-Bird, smiling
Lovely sense of release and joy in your words Fliss. Felt the renewal and reconnect. It's when the ordinary stuff, like picking up
a spoon, matters. It's when the family gathering of a Sunday roast can happen again. Going outside, a countryside drive, to be able to move and breathe fresh air.
Thanks for sharing Fliss
MacPhil
a spoon, matters. It's when the family gathering of a Sunday roast can happen again. Going outside, a countryside drive, to be able to move and breathe fresh air.
Thanks for sharing Fliss
MacPhil
Ta muchly, MacPhil! I'm pleased all the positivity comes through. Bit of a rough ride, but I got there in the end. I was in touch with Caleb throughout the convalescence and he got me back into writing poetry again
MacPhil, do you ever write to music? Sometimes I wonder whether being part of a writers' group for it might be more fun than setting up a magazine
Bw,
Fliss
PS: I haven't forgotten about the sandcastles!
MacPhil, do you ever write to music? Sometimes I wonder whether being part of a writers' group for it might be more fun than setting up a magazine
Bw,
Fliss
PS: I haven't forgotten about the sandcastles!