A new composition from composer, Joseph Alen Shaw, is indicative of a man of considerable musical talent, who doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. Not for the first time, has he used poetry to inspire musical composition. Last year I was flattered that he asked me to write a brief text on the seasonal theme of Autumn. The haiku triplet was beautifully woven into a song by some alchemical musical magic and is here. This also appeared in the October ‘Music’ themed edition of the BeZine.
The title of his new piece, he explains, was taken from the text of poem, “As at the Far Edge of Circling” by Ed Roberson. In my view, the music fits well with the text of the whole poem. You can judge for yourself.
The new composition, The Horizon Written, was commissioned by musician, Elliott Walker, the Church Organist at St Paul’s Rotherham in the UK, specifically for their Festival of Remembrance, which was held last November. Joseph’s own words in his blog, best describe it. The blog also contains a live recording of the music. The link to his blog is at the start of this paragraph).
[Harry ‘Tigger’ Potter was a handsome lithe 17+ year old tabby tom cat. Until very recently he was, to all intents still fit and active. It was only in his last few days that we realised something wasn’t right and even within his last 24 hours, after examination by and some bad news from the vet when he wandered round every corner of the surgery, probably looking for a way out, that he went down hill very rapidly. Within 12 hours of finding him the following morning and very unsteady on his feet, did the metastases from his liver course in his blood to his brain, causing us to respond in the only way it was possible to be kind to him. For many years, he was king of the jungle around here, but was always happy to sit on my wife’s lap and purr loudly every evening; he was, nonetheless, a good natured, thoroughgoing cat’s cat.
By way of a further footnote, ‘Vox clamantis in deserto’, the translation of which means ‘A voice crying out in the wilderness’ – is the motto of Dartmouth College, one of the elite Ivy-League colleges in the USA, which also happens to have been the alma mater of the poet, Robert Frost]
Wentworth Castle from the Parkland (Photo: John Anstie)
This tale is told by many tongues, of now and yesteryear. Three hundred years of life are here, but memories disappear.
Between each line, a thousand words of love, of heart and soul, there’s mystery here, it must be said, when tales remain untold,
they seed a search for history, a sparkle in the eyes of once romantic sons of yore; a family’s demise.
Refrain: And how their days would start at dawn to sounds of clacking feet. Underneath the stairs they’d run, their serving paths to beat.
Stone dressed, these monuments became far more than home sweet home, for they withstood the test of time in centuries to come.
And who could guess, in such a place, we’d cast our eyes and, more, write stories in organic dust, of lives that went before.
Their toil, by standards of today, would break, in half the time, the backs of men and women who, at forty, passed their prime.
[Refrain]
Faint tinkling of bone china plates their masters’ breakfast fare, the focus of their energies to serve, make good, repair.
And all day long these duties pressed their shoulders to the stone all day, each week, each month, each year, their lives were not their own.
No leisure time to recreate, without upstairs’ consent. With no spare time or energy, their lives were paid as rent.
[Refrain]
No time allowed away from toil save worship Sunday morn, where duty bound them to this house, all but their souls forsworn.
So much depended on their strength, their duty, loyalty; with half a day each week to rest they earned their royalty.
They had to cast off any thought of freedom, every day, they bore their obligation and they signed their lives away.
[Refrain]
The Victorian Conservatory, beside the Victorian Wing (Photo: John Anstie)
Then, life meant building grander things mere ornaments to scale, denying the austerity, when nation could not fail.
And here to glimpse humanity, their own great compromise; to fall from favour and love’s loss; so too a great house dies
… and with it all dependant life, no welfare scheme was theirs for all of its inhabitants underneath the stairs.
[Refrain]
And as his mansion starts to die, the Earl sold on his lot, the need for education rose and a roof to stop the rot.
But here’s the final irony: for those who served in fear of losing jobs for which, today, we freely volunteer.
This grand estate, these monuments this house and gardens too are all the product of an age, restored and serving you.
Refrain: And how their days would start at dawn to sounds of clacking feet. Underneath the stairs they’d run, their serving paths to beat.
The Cast inside the conservatory (Photo: Brian Parkhurst)
This landscape’s green and pleasant land its rooted, verdant gold captures all these mysteries for you that we unfold.
The following is an edited extract from the whole piece, recorded in Dennis Tuckerman’s Cellar Studios on 21st April 2017. All music: composed, played with pick and bow on six-string bass guitar by Joseph Alen Shaw. Voice: spoken and sung by John Anstie, who also edited the whole production into the final script.
[ This lyric is based on an original ballad, written for this historic site, three years before, but never published until it was given its first outing last year. It was extensively edited and augmented for Joseph Shaw’s commission, the ‘Wentworth Cantata’, which was performed to an invited audience in the historic Victorian Conservatory of Wentworth Castle Gardens, South Yorkshire on 16th October 2016. This song was comprised of six cycles of four verses; each cycle consisting of two spoken and two sung verses, the last of which was a reiterated refrain. Between the cycles of this piece, the voices of poets and writers from the Penistone Poets and Barnsley Writers were threaded into the whole production. The above piece “Underneath the Stairs” thus became the backbone of the whole production. There were some very interesting contributions from the other poets and writers, which it was hoped to bring together in a book, but this has yet to emerge ]
One hundred thousand
Poets for change,
so many voices and
carefully chosen words, seem
to be decaying into the void
of the anechoic chamber.
Earthly Fathers praying
for the Establishment,
that sets the stage
and casts its values
in concrete, steel,
plastic … and carbon.
Leaders of the World,
whose balance sheets and
rational, numerate intellect
measure only a notion
of success. What is that?
What is success?
For aren’t we just that,
a wealth of rich and
creative intelligence
that is the only hope
for our universe
to understand itself?
Heavenly Mothers ask us:
why digitise and monetise
and worship at the alter
of the great god, Thworg,
when we are imbued with
richness beyond measure?
Escape to the stars, if you must,
but answers will be found not
in the vanity of space-time travel,
but here, with unaided vision
they lie in the green and blue,
right before your disbelieving eyes.
Permit your heart to rule
even if only one day a week, when
the visceral, and the common sense
can overrule logic and intellect, and
that subliminal noise in our head
will slowly awaken the conscience.
Maybe, one day we’ll be more than
Seven Thousand Million Poets for Change!
No more sleepwalking through life
The time will come. Greatness beckons.
It’s in the wind, this beating heart,
a movement beyond the gaze of mortals …
[The first two lines are taken from “The Rime of The Ancient Mariner”, the most epic of his lyric ballads, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. This was first published in the June 2017 edition of the BeZine]
They could not see
the end
of their noses
the end
of the last century
the end
of infantry and cavalry
of Boys Own battles
and yet they stand
today in ceremony,
the successors
and descendants
of those, who may have
invoked
supplied
and managed
this catastrophe,
with military pomp.
Somehow
it glorifies,
it excuses
it avoids
the actions,
the decisions,
the consequences
the tactical and
maybe strategic folly
the utterly desperate
and tragic outcome,
somehow …
And yet, how else
can we remember
those, who were,
without question,
persuaded to be brave
enough to give up
their lives
for a five mile
quagmire?
[This is the only way I can commemorate Passchendaele. Today, 31st July, is the centenary of the start of that horrendous battle. It raged for 100 days and took hundreds of thousands of lives. The oft spoken words: “We will remember them” are not enough any more. We should now be asking big and much more difficult questions]
Their wayward spirits pull
in opposition to wavering
forces of parental aspiration.
They threaten fraying threads
in seams of bedlam’s bursting bag
that barely contains the chaos.
The morning school run
a controlled explosion
ruthless and well oiled
the caring machine runs
this oft trodden path
through anarchy.
But dare they dream
of that perfect sound
of peace and quiet
the heaven
the bliss
the hope
… the fear
of that deafening silence
the hour before dawn
when they fledge
maybe to return
one welcome day.
Dear Earth, you are a sacred aqueous Isle
in a dark and endless sea of universe
We may be bound by genetic code.
You may never reveal your strategy
the presupposing chemical destiny
of one great astrophysical master plan
for all living things. We, who represent
your malaise, your chronic infestation;
we, like a fleeting itch in your long life,
will never comprehend it. But, in truth
you know too well that we can never
understand more than one percent
of all there is to know. You contain
the knowledge that is beyond us.
We are but a rash on your skin.
One day, we know you will
raze all of our delusions,
prepare us for the day
when a blinding light
will inoculate you
and inform us of
a moment when
extant humans
will, at last be
prepared to
distinguish
the lies
f r o m
truth
that
w e
a r e
m e r e
a t o m i c
p a r t i c l e s
i n s i d e a t e m p o r a l c h a l i c e
Gloaming – Drawings, Paintings, Poems
A remarkable book of paintings and drawings by Melaneia Warwick accompanied by ekphrastic poems, written by the incredible Peter Wilkin
PoetJanstie
My Poetry Library 