"He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over
which he himself must pass" George Herbert
Beethoven bawdily twists, as only he can,
beneath a sparkling chandelier in a
central Bruges concert hall – sweet and clear
when a man and his girl start giggling,
taking photos, yelling like fishwives
intertwined with four-stringed instruments
and I feel strong emotion – ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’ urges – you know;
dare I, well, mention it, ask them to shush? When I do lean over,
say ‘scuse me , would you mind being quiet?’ and the man simply
nods, I turn accusing, burning eyes, ‘Are you sure?’ and he
looks away, a little scared. I sit back, indignant now,
fired by inner anger. ‘What if he thumps me
as we leave?’ I say to myself, completely ruining
Ludwig’s capacity. I know this idea – do you have the anger
or does the anger have you? And the string part seethes higher, more
vibrato than ever. Sitting back, eyes closed, I enter the sound
with hundreds around, transported by melody,
letting it go; letting myself; letting my dissonance go.
a word blows into time
with every glittering chance
to heal our headspace, heart, and fly
lifting humans by the hand,
dancing under Vincent sky;
one chord - and then - the next.
Life is for giving
The conch of a cow syncopates my footfall,
a reaching tree overshadows a smaller one,
a farm lights up and winks with power on
and crazy fluffy sheep cluster up against a wall.
My bag bursts open like a circus clown
and I worry like a mother on tomorrow;
my words come clumsy, stuttering and slow;
I scatter all my change, try to smile, but frown.
I drink too much beer and stumble down a stair,
drive too daring and get myself a ticket,
fall off my bike, on my back, in a thicket,
stare at the sky and cannot name one star.
So what? So what? Shall I curl into a ball?
No, God forbid, yes, forgive them all.