National Poetry Day

bruegel mad meg

It is National Poetry Day in the UK. Here is my contribution. Click on the image if you want to see the details.

Bruegel comes to town

Before I realise   how time flies      I’ve been poring over Bruegel
for more than an hour      I pick up my shopping list
twenty minutes later     sees me in the high street
peasant faces everywhere I look     The Big Issue Seller
is a strolling player    but has the use of both her legs and sight
Cheese    bread and earthy vegetables are on my list
I can barely make out the scrawl     A merchant
drops a sack of something on the floor    The girl at the till
leers and makes a crack     The tomatoes are Dutch    no English
apples anywhere I search    I glimpse a proverb over there
something about a man without money is a corpse    coins chink
in the till     On my way out I pass a crazy woman
clad in iron armour   wielding a sword              striding into the shop

Listening to Mozart

images mozart

As it is national poetry day in the UK here is a poem of mine. Oops! Poetry day isn’t until October, I’m jumping the gun!  Anyway my confusion made me post so all’s well and good.

Amadeus Mozart is the quintessential prodigy-genius. Along with Beethoven and JS Bach, he is regarded as among the greatest composers of all time. When he was on his death bed Mozart had the score of his last Requiem at hand. In fact there is a painting showing assembled friends and family round his bed singing the Requiem! He was 35 when he died on 5 Dec 1791; the exact location of his burial is unknown.

Listening to Mozart

I place the CD in its tray   press play      and settle down

to listen       my mind wanders off-key                wonders

about greatness                        and perfect sonata form

how to value time spent here                             soon

otherworldly strains startle me into the sufficient      Now

but soon      too soon cat’s paws claw at the window pane

now I fall out of the moment’s grasp       wonder if his cat

scratched at windows too. . .

on and on the wandering goes                an hour or more

since I passed                              a dead cat on the street

now I measure deaths of great and small          remember

his death-breath whispered      drumbeat of his last score