I went to the ‘Unplugged’ yesterday poetry café at Betterton St, London…. wonderful experience hearing poetry of all kinds of styles and expressions, and some so deep they ache with lived experience, and some very hard things to even listen to when you know it’s real life. So I recently bought a microphone, purely out of faith. I do like sometimes to record a piece of music or poetry, I hate usually having to do this for myself, but, in place of the finance needed for studios of course, I try things out at home. As some of you might know from my various rough efforts on http://www.youtube.com . I ran a MySpace account for a while it’s still there. But, one of my frustrations there was simply time allowance to keep up with all these pages, and I had to admit my perusal of the MNE paper the paper for musicians, well is very sorrowfully infrequent. Plenty of musicians, out there needing connection. So why do I take all this time? I wrote so many lyrics for songs and some melodies, but, never got them further than my music files at home. So bad was this going that my pukka pad and pages from it got stolen, from me when I made a move once and savagely this person seems to have ripped pages of words I will not be able to repeat accurately. It’s fortunate that in my effort to make them I use to sing them over a few times and so with a little bit of jogging of the memory, I am able to rewrite the lyrics and share them.
Bear in mind the God who made the day time also made the night. So for me the night is not the unfriendly place of bad nightmares, well not always. I remember dreaming of a place a beach, a stream, the most magical thing happened. I mean..meaningful. I mean, the translation of which, all else belongs to this. Smooth damp sands of seashores I have only been to in dreams. The rocks are black possibly of granite, but, you might say this is the night light of that time of the day. But, before my eyes a mountain stream emerges from a cave. The stream, at first was filled with different keys, like silver keys ornate keys, that changed first from key to candle and back. The ‘secret’ is the light, and knowledge and light are, the key to everything. Keys, candles, streams.
Into the dark night slip away like a tide at the touch of your hand, ( the dreaming)
The hand of a clock ticks away to the sound of the beat of my heart.( Rhythm in nature)
In the blink of an eye turn around to see someone, but no one was there( ghosts, like the kind in Andrei Tarkovsky ‘s ”Mirror”)
Like an intake of breathe when your tired.
Wood broken skin and the splinters within
And the pained cry of a child in the distance.(living on in the memory of a woman, me)
And the love that’s within is your love growing dim
As you move like the wheels of a car slipping swiftly away for a day.
Take a ‘train’ from your mind and the spider inside weaves a web in your head
It was made with the intention of the time signature of something like Kate Bush’s ‘Little Army Dreamers’, so three time, ..so wish I could play piano.. sometimes… needs orchestration violins etc.