by John Finnigan
North sea waves clash boom cymbals
In a fantastical orchestra of tides;
You wonder if its Simon Pure, Peter Grimes
Knowing as you traipse you walk a narrow plank
In stepping-stone octaves as throwaway as yesterday
Yet integrating Don Giovanni and Muffin the Mule.
Heres the interplay of mind-exploding crash penances:
Its one climax after another, a simplistic melodrama
But containing the chords of every drowning Phlebas.
I am not a sea bass! What is Truth In Translation?
How will I show them Im a genius in Bombay?
All maestros know the score; its a seaspray away,
An anenomes fizzing harmony, that simple but tragic
Melody some record as the mermaids song and some
Leviathan, depending on which way the wind is blowing,
Which glass shatters at your Beachcombers feet -
Staves so sweet or gallows stretching out the dead
From rockpool to rockpool containing every minnow?
Is it the Merry Widow returning as a War Requiem?
Agitated pebbles look like Ludwig Van in raptus
In some interpretations of a score always sense-less,
The slightly out-of-sight leitmotifs hiding their
Program Notes away from loafers on a panama day
When Sol is at full-throttle, scoring for keeps
And takes your tideline away if youre not careful!
Ships on a far horizon: minim? Crotchet? Semibreve?
Crude or Innocent? The marking is motion perpetual,
Facing up to our ninth around Marsdens boss omphalos
Which is the rock of all sea surges, bowed, blowed -
All bets off in a seagulls solo screech rehearsal!
No better option that to fix your conches to both ears -
A Music Of The Spheres (not for squares), whether its
A choir, barbershop quartet, stealth bomber
Lovers toss stones into a lathering foam and dance:
Do motions take a jagged rock and smooth it in the end
In a time-signature unknown, before a last performance?