Maypole Dance

On the Terrace of Sudeley, come Bank Holiday,

after May Queen is crowned and a song for Green Jack,

Happenstance raise the Maypole, to welcome the May

in their blue and green tatters, hats feathered and black.

After May Queen is crowned and a song for Green Jack,

Hap’s musicians launch into a jubilant tune

in their blue and green tatters, hats feathered and black,

to rejoice in the Spring on this fine afternoon.

Hap’s musicians launch into a jubilant tune,

as around the green pole all the ribbons parade,

to rejoice in the Spring on this fine afternoon

reds and yellows combine and the patterns are made.

As around the green pole all the ribbons parade

chestnut candles ascend, bluebells chime, tulips bloom,

reds and yellows combine and the patterns are made,

courting pigeons in silver gowns murmur and plume.

Chestnut candles ascend, bluebells chime, tulips bloom,

Happenstance raise the Maypole, to welcome the May,

courting pigeons in silver gowns murmur and plume

on the Terrace of Sudeley, come Bank Holiday.

* * *

Alas, the unrelenting master Work continues to wrench the P-i-R from the embrace of Poesie, but by last Monday a goodly portion of another splendid scholarly tome had been completed and thus I felt able to travel to Sudeley for the May Day celebrations featuring Happenstance. And Brother Adrian was kind enough to convey me thither, in the trusty WAV.

I attended this event last year and found it very enjoyable. Happenstance’s dance to recall the tradition of chimney-sweeps was particularly interesting and it inspired this song: http://happenstancepoetry.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/chimney-sweepers-dancing-day.html

I was pleased to watch the chimney-sweeps’ dance this year too, especially as Mrs T was involved, wearing red pyjamas. Happenstance also performed a new dance, [name], the subject of my next poem once Mrs T has performed it for me at Poet’s Nest, to refresh my memory. For now, I’ve composed a pantoum to describe the Maypole dance. The structure is the same as in my ‘Quebec’ and ‘Isbourne’, but whereas each line of those two poems is performed as iambic tetrameter, here I use the waltzer rhythm, ~ ~ / – ~ ~ / – ~ ~ / – ~ ~ / –, just for a change!

The Maypole dancers were excellent and I liked the pattern of the red and yellow ribbons at the top of the green pole. I was reminded of the superb sight after the dance, in a corner of Sudeley grounds planted with beautiful tulips; see Bro A’s picture below.

<(:-)

Opus pigeon

... or, (^.> oo

Sing pigeons sing as the sun starts to rise . .

perching in Father Lime, close to the skies . .

watching the world wake with golden-rimmed eyes . .

sing pigeons sing thy sweet tune . . . . .

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . oo

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . oo

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . .

oo

Sing pigeons sing as the sun courses high . .

rounding Far Oak and her limbs swept awry . .

sailing on silver wings shimmering by . .

sing pigeons sing thy sweet tune . . . . .

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . oo

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . oo

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . .

oo

Sing pigeons sing as the sun sets to night . .

roosting in Horse Chestnut, bathed in rose light . .

settling by candle bronze, soon to bloom white . .

sing pigeons sing thy sweet tune . . . . .

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . oo

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . oo

oo . . oo . . oo-oo . . . .

oo

* * *

Ah, Spring <(:-)

During the next fortnight, I hope to compose a tune for my ‘Spring Song’, a poem written last year (http://happenstancepoetry.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/spring-song.html). By way of interlude, I’ve composed this rather foolish sort of ditty, inspired by the beautiful tones of the wood pigeons in residence around Poet’s Nest, as I like to term my abode.

Since my youth, the call of wood pigeons has been my favourite of all birdsongs – though the soft coo of doves comes a very close second. So imagine my joy, as I sat checking references in a splendid scholarly tome one afternoon, in hearing a solitary wood pigeon calling from the garden and realising that – huzzah! – the rhythm of the call fits neatly into a waltzer piece.

Thus the ditty, ~ - - ~ - - ~ - - ~ - -, with each ‘.’ after a word or ‘oo’ indicating that the same should be sustained to the end of the line. I have a tune in mind for the verses, to be played sotto voce throughout the chorus. As the chorus is faithful to Opus pigeon, the last ‘oo’ is abrupt, though the verse tune continues until the final beat.

<(:-)

Postlip-scape

Black rook

sweep rolling clouds

and clear wide fields of blues;

caw raucous chants from beechen thrones

to Farm…

White sheep

stir rippling grass

and shift wide clouds of greens;

baa mellow tunes from grassy realms

to Hall…

* * *

Here’s a short poem that I prepared earlier and forgot to post. Foolish P-i-R! <(:-)

On arrival at Postlip, I spent some time surveying the view of the Farm from the Hall while recovering from the journey. (Mr T. is a delightful driver, but my knee injury has worsened this year.) The harsh calls of rooks led my gaze to their location, high amid the branches of beeches. Then I heard sheep bleating from the far fields, so I watched the dear woolly ones awhile.

It seemed there was a dialogue between rooks and sheep, which I try to re-create in my poem by merging their scenery a little. Each verse is a cinquain, a poem of five lines in which the first has one stress, the second two, the third three, the fourth four – and the fifth, one. My lines are intended to be performed iambically, so the rhythm is ~ – / ~ – ~ – / ~ – ~ – ~ – / ~ – ~ – ~ – ~ – / ~ – (for further information, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinquain)

The cinquain works well for building tension, then abruptly easing off. I’ve used it elsewhere in this way; here, each last line with its trailing ellipsis hopes to lead the reader into the next verse – not only 1 to 2, but also 2 to 1 on repeat. I write ‘wide’ twice to create an echo… echo… echo…

<(:-)

Cotswold Wassail

Now hear ye all our fruity song

   to rouse these trees in winter,

come join our dance in joyful throng,

   try not to get a splinter.

Wassail, wassail to thee, King Tree,

   and all thy court and county,

that come the autumn these boughs shall be

   full blessed with apple bounty!

We clash our sticks to make a din,

   then weave around the branches,

make up a ring, then all skip in

   and out in goodly dances.

Wassail, wassail to thee, King Tree,

   and all thy court and county,

that come the autumn these boughs shall be

   full blessed with apple bounty!

Now time’s arrived to wake the king

   and all across the shires,

we set our pots and pans howling

   ’til BANG! the rifle fires.

Wassail, wassail to thee, King Tree,

   and all thy court and county,

that come the autumn these boughs shall be

   full blessed with apple bounty!

Then let’s hang up a ball of fat

   for Robin guards the orchard,

and toast fresh dipped in cider vat,

   ’twill bring the fruiting forward.

Wassail, wassail to thee, King Tree,

   and all thy court and county,

that come the autumn these boughs shall be

   full blessed with apple bounty!

And next, we pours some cider round

   King Tree’s grand trunk and old roots,

so when ’tis springtime he’ll abound

   in fresh and green and gold shoots.

Wassail, wassail to thee, King Tree,

   and all thy court and county,

that come the autumn these boughs shall be

   full blessed with apple bounty!

Last act, we toast to thy good health,

   dear tree, and may thee flourish,

and blossom e’er with apple wealth

   that serves ourselves to nourish.

Wassail, wassail to thee, King Tree,

   and all thy court and county,

that come the autumn these boughs shall be

   full blessed with apple bounty!

* * *

Wassail!

… and, belatedly, a Happy New Year!

The year 2015 marks the return, rather than retreat, of the P-i-R – and with a new emphasis on songwriting. Thus I present a song inspired by Happenstance’s orchard-visiting wassail at Postlip, last Saturday 24 January. Mrs T.’s fieldnotes from the event at Snowshill, earlier this month, were also consulted. And I’ve even composed a tune, on my Casio SA-1 mini-keyboard!

Wikipedia provides information concerning the orchard-visiting wassail tradition at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wassailing – ‘The ceremonies of each wassail vary from village to village but they generally all have the same core elements’ (*P-i-R pauses to chuckle*). And there’s a lovely account of last year’s Snowshill visit at https://secretsofsnowshillnt.wordpress.com/2014/01/22/wassail-drinkhail/ and brilliant video at https://grizzlyalanc.wordpress.com

The photo below shows my tune, on MuseScore – one verse plus chorus. The second ‘wassail’ of the chorus is three syllables, ‘wa-sai-il’. There may be scope to add instrumental harmonies – and I imagine the performance might involve percussion and illustrative movements too. Singers might like to howl on ‘howling’ and shout on ‘BANG!’ My helper (just visible) is, of course, mascot Hap :>)

Drinkhail!
<(:-)

Quebec

Around cream teas and apple trees

there blows a rowdy shanty air

from olden days and working quays

and men that tumbled timber there.

There blows a rowdy shanty air

on easterlies off far Quebec

and men that tumbled timber there

from white pine forests onto deck.

On easterlies off far Quebec

the strains of engines hauling logs

from white pine forests onto deck

and voices singing through sea fogs.

The strains of engines hauling logs

the donkey works of strength and skill 

and voices singing through sea fogs

cross ploughing fields to meet Snowshill.

The donkey works of strength and skill

from olden days and working quays

cross ploughing fields to meet Snowshill

around cream teas and apple trees.

* * *

The dance ‘Quebec’ made for a rousing performance at Snowshill, with many of the audience members singing along to the familiar tune ‘Donkey Riding’.

I had in mind to acknowledge the lyrics of ‘Donkey Riding’ in my poem inspired by ‘Quebec’, so once again I approached Mrs T. for performance notes. Mrs T. explained that no one in Happenstance seems to know the lyrics beyond the first verse and chorus. Also, strictly speaking, no lyrics are included in the performance, but since the chorus was sung with such enthusiasm at Snowshill I decided to research the song for the poem.

It turns out that the ‘donkey’ of ‘Donkey Riding’ is thought by some to refer to a donkey engine, used by sailors to load logs on board ships sailing from Quebec and other places. The song itself was sung by the sailors as they worked. There’s more information via links at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donkey_Riding and one version of the full lyrics is available at http://www.traditionalmusic.co.uk/song-midis/Donkey_Riding.htm (I don’t venture beyond Quebec, just in keeping with the Morris dance title).

The form of this poem is pantoum, last written for ‘Isbourne’. To my untrained eyes, ‘Quebec’ seems to involve a lot of spins, as the pantoum has a sense of rotation through its line patternings. And there’s a nod to the figure called ‘ploughing the field’ in the fourth and final verses.

<(:-)

Sonnet: To Polly

When cold chains clench my wrists through skin to bone

   and fetters grasp my ankles tight so tight

that bloody sores break weeping while I groan

   from day’s beginning to the dark of night;

and when my mind seems riddled with despair

   so endless deep at times I wish that Death

might come and take me quickly to his lair

   for kind ’twould be to snatch my tortured breath;

’tis then I think on thee, my own true love,

   who sighs and waits these seven years for me,

how I’ll fly home an eagle, far above

   those dismal decks that sail the storm-tossed sea;

for time itself grows wings towards the day

I’ll lie in thy soft bosom, there to stay.

* * *

One of the performances by Happenstance at Snowshill was ‘Here’s adieu to all judges and juries’, a transportation song. It’s accompanied by a dance that involves many interesting shapes and some enthusiastic thwacking, before the side ‘[d]rop sticks, hold on to next person’s right shoulder and amble off, like convicts’ from my performance notes, provided by Mrs T.

As the performance itself contains lyrics, I chose to write an inspiration piece, musing on poetry that the prisoner might have written to his Polly while incarcerated in ‘a strange country’, so far from home. I opted to compose a sonnet as this seemed to me the form best suited to expressing the prisoner’s thoughts at this time, the physical and psychological tortures of confinement resolving in the solace of believing that Polly waits for him. The solace part of the sonnet owes much to the original words of the chorus (again, from Mrs T.):

How often I wish that the eagle

Would send me her wings, I would fly

I would fly to the arms of my Polly

And in her soft bosom I’d lie.

I found information on prison conditions in a useful article by Andrew C. Rouse, ‘The Transportation Ballad: a song type rooted in eighteenth-century England’, via http://www.jstor.org/discover/10.2307/41274385?uid=3738032&uid=2&uid=4&sid=21105263784553

<(:-)

To Snowshill

Mid-October, after noon –
the russet squirrel,

formed by dwindling leaves of horse chestnut,
waves gently
at the tall turquoise tortoise
gliding through her grounds

grey gutters lie piled in parchments,
epics of this fall, spun from
blowing billowing branches,
ships in clear sea sky

urban limes trail bronze treasures,
farm poplars stream shiny coins
and, farther, country oaks tip triumphal tokens
for the woolly folk curled
by gnarled hulls

crows spread black silk sails
on low fallow fields,
drifting higher to homesteads and gardens –
mown lawn, raked round mound,
mellow smoke

at hill’s crest long-limbed pines sweep the heavens,
tossing needles by cantering ponies
roused by whistling winds
on slick flanks

patchworks of meadows lie
blurred in descent,
hedgerows of finches thread
scarlet and amber and gold

slowing through town,
narrow streets of stone houses
cast blank looks at faltering traffic
through blinded glass eyes

haunted hall rises
stern and squarish;
the river carries maple rafts
as it sings the way

fruits tumble merrily
on damp dewdrop grasses,
fields stretch languorously
under the caresses of serene sun

woods enfold the final passage –
ash shake lithely,
a copper beech
brandishes flags

then the crunch of gravel
and a familiar raggedy bird,
winging a welcome
before joining her flock

a swig of hot apple and cinnamon
as harmonicas summon,
bells jingle on patio paving
and the dance begins.


* * *
With apologies for its late arrival (due to career commitments), here’s the beginning to the Snowshill series, an account of the journey from Cheltenham in the turquoise tortoise, aka my wheelchair-accessible vehicle (WAV).

In fact, the tortoise makes for fast travel, especially with the likes of Brother Adrian at the wheel. For most of our trips around the Cotswolds, I must watch ahead for the prospect of bumps and brace myself accordingly. However, occasionally we’re treated to smooth sailing and I enjoy the scenes that fly past the side windows.

I chose to write this poem in free verse to emphasise the blur of sights from Cheltenham to Snowshill, reserving rhythm for pieces describing the dances, to follow. Wikipedia has an interesting article on free verse here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_verse

I tend to feel a little uncertain when writing free verse, without the sense of purpose afforded by adhering to a strict scheme. Often I find I’ve introduced rhythm despite myself, unable to ignore the sounds of words in my inner ear. It takes effort to construct a poem that is words without song.


<(:-)