This memory is dedicated to the late, great Kathleen Ferrier.
Of my council house childhood
I see myself in Miss Quixall's
Music class.
She is handing out
The instruments for
A live session.
She gives me a triangle...
Again!
I wanted a tambourine
Or a drum, or even
A pennywhistle
But no, I was a
Triangle...
Again!
As I worked out
The interior angles
Of an equilateral
Triangle
Miss Quixall said
That she was going
To give us a treat
And play a record
Of a great British
Singer.
So she took out
A record that
Looked like my
Favourite liquorice,
The one like a
Catherine Wheel,
And put it on the
Turntable that
Was disguised as a
Coffee table,
And started the spinning,
The spinning that began
As a crackle, like someone
Clearing their throat,
And ended in a angel's voice.
When the angel stopped spinning
And singing, Miss Quixall said that
We had all heard the wonderful
Voice of Kathleen Ferrier,
A Lancashire lass from Blackburn.
Susan Drysdale, who had given
Me a kiss at the Christmas Party,
Asked if she was still living in
Blackburn and Miss Quixall said
Kathleen Ferrier had died from
Cancer a few years earlier
But that with the benefit of
Modern technology her
Voice lived on.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 740 times
Written on 2016-09-15 at 13:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
What is life?
In my squint-eyed memoryOf my council house childhood
I see myself in Miss Quixall's
Music class.
She is handing out
The instruments for
A live session.
She gives me a triangle...
Again!
I wanted a tambourine
Or a drum, or even
A pennywhistle
But no, I was a
Triangle...
Again!
As I worked out
The interior angles
Of an equilateral
Triangle
Miss Quixall said
That she was going
To give us a treat
And play a record
Of a great British
Singer.
So she took out
A record that
Looked like my
Favourite liquorice,
The one like a
Catherine Wheel,
And put it on the
Turntable that
Was disguised as a
Coffee table,
And started the spinning,
The spinning that began
As a crackle, like someone
Clearing their throat,
And ended in a angel's voice.
When the angel stopped spinning
And singing, Miss Quixall said that
We had all heard the wonderful
Voice of Kathleen Ferrier,
A Lancashire lass from Blackburn.
Susan Drysdale, who had given
Me a kiss at the Christmas Party,
Asked if she was still living in
Blackburn and Miss Quixall said
Kathleen Ferrier had died from
Cancer a few years earlier
But that with the benefit of
Modern technology her
Voice lived on.
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 740 times
Written on 2016-09-15 at 13:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Kathy Lockhart |
