Month: September 2016

In the spring-time of our world,

In sunshine pure and golden,

There lolled the satyr,

Pan,

Beside a stream

Upon the greenest, softest bank.

He sat and dreamed alone…

Nearby, the wood-nymph,

Syrinx,

Unaware of horned and hoofed half-man,

Sang her song of joy.

Pan heard her silver sounds,

Sat up,

Shook pointed ears,

Yawned

And stretched,

Put cloven foot upon the ground.

All unaware,

Sweet Syrinx went her dainty way.

Half-beast, half-man,

Pan

Followed.

Spying his shadowed form

Stalking through leafy glade,

Poor wood-nymph, trembling and afraid,

Ran –

She ran from Pan,

Who followed, fleet of foot,

Stretched out his hand –

He almost had her –

“Save me, dear gods of the river,”

she cried in despair.

And,

As Pan’s hand clasped her waist,

She vanished.

He held,

In her place,

A handful of reeds…

Poor Pan,

Poor lonely half-beast half-man,

In his grief

Snapped the reeds,

And bound the pieces together.

Sad and sweet,

On silvery pipes,

His heartbroken sobs

Echo

Through misty, mysterious time.

Copyright © Isabel Bradley

 

Music is a treasure-trove –

Of sound, rhythm, emotion;

Of history and stories told…

Music – a treasure-trove –

Of marvel, mystery and magic,

Creating forms and shapes,

And conjuring hopes, fears,

Disappointments and delights.

Music – a treasure-trove –

Of  joy, and grief,

Ambition, determination –

And triumph.

Music – a treasure-trove –

Of respite and relaxation,

Drawing tension from the soul,

Instilling serenity, calm, peace and tranquility.

Music – marvelous music!

Copyright © Isabel Bradley

 

Me and Dad – around 1992

 

 

Young girl
On my father’s arm,
Dressed in my best,
Lifting long skirts to rise,
To float,
Up the winding wide staircase;

Watching glamorous concert-goers,
Breathing in perfume,
Admiring lace and silk,
It’s swish and swirl,
Exquisite evening bags
Dangling, tantalising,
From elegant, bejewelled wrists;
Envying them their ease of conversation
With men,
Suave in suits and glossy ties.

Anticipation –
It feels like butterflies in my chest.
We take our seats,
Red-velvet, soft,
High in the balcony,
Where I can see and hear
The giddy excitement:
And here they come –
The Orchestra,
Musicians in glittering black
With gleaming instruments,
And there’s the conductor,
He bows, lifts his baton,
And the Music soars,
Up to our ears in glory…

And oh, the fun,
watching:
the flautist floating his sound high and pure
and silver and sobbing,
sitting crouched like a bad-tempered toad in his chair;
The trumpet’s bright and brilliant sound
Ripping through the ponderous strings,
The trumpeter’s face red
and glowing,
and bright with sweat;
and the percussionist,
swinging his hammer back and forth
between gong and base-drum,
“Bonggggg”, “Boom”, “Bonnngggg,” “Boom”,
“Boooonnnnnggggg”
And missing a beat
As he catches and rights
The falling, reverberating gong.

Interval –
We go downstairs
And fight our way through the crowd,
Heading backstage.
We find and talk to
The red-faced trumpeter,
The ‘grumpy toad’ flautist –
My much-loved teacher,
And some of the young cadets –
Flirt with them behind Dad’s back…

Sleeping with my head on his shoulder
Through the second half;
Roused by a roll on the timps.
Edging our way downstairs,
Through the tunnel,
To the car in the parking lot,
Discussing in detail
Every note,
Every musician,
And –
Just being together:
Me, my Dad, and music.

Copyright © Isabel Bradley