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Letter to a poet (on turning 70 and the radio dial)
for Geraldine Monk
The radio is searching for a station
(Test match special, desert island discs)
I was thinking that I cannot write
a poem to a poet (coals to Newcastle or Sheffield etc.)
and I can’t write anything else. A letter?
A rhythm catching memory and chance
in the inevitable kaleidoscopic mess.
It’s been centuries since the muse
decided to reside in aspects of a person’s life,
but when we write we still give up that self,
so that everything that is not us shines thru:
A wren, the radio, the traffic and the kettle
making tea or later a hot toddy, necessary
rituals that make our lives reasonably livable
played out between the ecstasies and agonies,
the flourishes of song and blossoming.
We sing because for us to be alive we teeter on
the nether edge of otherness, grateful, overawed,
responsible, momentarily, for song and what she sings.
It’s not enough that one shows fluency,
not quite—the song must be a part of history
not apart from it—a cry heard on the common,
a murmur that becomes true company
to hidden truths accessible by letting go
by turning on and tuning out the radio…
It can’t have been as long ago as that
when we met—both midgame mid-dance mid-glow
of living and allowing life. The dance continues
round the various rooms we end up in
where we sit and read, reflect and sometimes
share the ancient thrill of writing poems:
Yours as vivid as your heraldic colours,
burgundy and rose and mauve, a medieval chamber
come to life—and raucous laughter
like a magpie dancing on the lawn
or a jackdaw calling down the chimney
Nature’s clarion
because a festival is always just a tune away…
The Seelie and Unseelie courts unite
to cheer the Aztec Princess on her Cameleopard
riding with sambucas in each hand
Bess of Hardwick on the disco floor
dancing to Gladys and the Green Knight
(a weather forecast followed by the pips),
Brussel sprouts to celebrate the birth of the redeemer
Mother Mary intercede for us
(a sheela-na-gig astride the manger?)
a festival at once unruly and divinely gorgeous,
sister to Sitwell, Skelton and John Clare,
Dogger, Humber, Irish Sea,
Portishead, Moloko, Billie Holiday
Ghosts of the living, ghosts of the dead
Gothic & Modern like the Sheffield Marriott
or a car ride through the Derby Dales
Queen Boudicea on her chariot
(Alan-a-dale at the wheel)
a Northern ballad sung by Kathleen Ferrier
set to a galliard danced in hobnail-high-heels,
a rhythm as alive as breathing air
(the voice of Charlie Drake whispers in your ear)
In the static on the radio you hear an orchestra…
[Martin Corless-Smith is the author of a dozen or so books. He lives and teaches in Boise, Idaho.]
Copyright © 2022 by Martin Corless-Smith all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.
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