Everybody knows it’s almost time
as sound men make their final checks
and wheel the baby grand
sleek, black – poised
to centre stage, amid background bubbling
of expectant, festival-soaked chatter
flavoured with paint and crochet,
chips, cheap beer and marinated words
A hat and a pint
of Guinness and cheers as the stage
claims its prize – all eyes
trained on the waif-like, mesmerising figure
as memories float unseen but thought,
half-thought, a quarter…
whizzing like electrons as he twizzles the piano
stool and sits – fingers flexed
The crowd does not ignite
as the baby swallows sound,
keys dribbling notes
which fall short and trickle through conversation,
teasing – pleasing only when the riffs
of guitar restore the Stendhal syndrome
and sound reclaims the tent,
underfoot a percussion of plastic cups and mud and butts
‘One more tune, one more tune, one more tune’
they hook him back after the woodshed
national express – you know that ‘no’
means yes – berate the sound team
shout the words and clap the beats,
circumnavigate six-footers and snap
a pale portrait – eyes smudged pink underneath
appreciative, applauded,
appalled, a professional
a divine act.
(Just a little poetic memento from the Stendhal Festival which I thought I would share.)