Oh Mr. Johnson,
did you
really
do it?
Did you
go to
the crossroads
Gibson in hand?
Were you
so desperate
to spread
the message of
the blues?
So brave
of you
to be
so willing
to pay
with
your soul.
Satan snatched
the fragment
of holiness
from
your heart.
His greedy
claws tore
through your
spirit.
Leaving you
clutching only
your
trusty instrument.
So young,
so youthful
you were
when your
dark eyes
closed
for good.
Just twenty-seven
was your age
when that
talented heart
ceased
to beat.
Whisky bottle!
Strychnine!
The loss
of a
musician.
Never another
like you.
You are
an enigma,
Mr. Johnson.
Your birth,
marriage, death
records and
your music
is all you
left behind.
We'll never
know for
certain if
Satan sapped
your soul away.
But one thing
cannot
be denied.
Your tragic
premature death
raised you
to the
status of
a legend
You influenced
you inspired.
You liberated
the musicians
of your race.
You played
an essential role
in bringing
us together.
You are the
undisputed master
of the guitar.
If his
Satanic Majesty
has your soul,
it is worth more
than all
material riches
he could
ever hope
to possess.
It has bought
fame for you,
music for all
and even
racial harmony.
You suffered
bravely, Robert.
It cost
your life,
but you
chose wisely.
You spent
your soul well
and we
are grateful
Oh Mr. Johnson.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Cathedral Courtyard in Bloom
I was surprised to find on my visit to the Cathedral Courtyard today, that the delicate, woody fingers of the tree branches had suddenly festooned themselves in tiny scraps of green and white. Each leaf a succulent green disc of Nature's juices, carefully separated from its fellows by a slender, brown stalk. The rough pathway was heavily strewn with the natural confetti of the blossom petals, as though the marriage of Mother Nature and Father Time had taken place within that very Cathedral.
It was not cool enough to need my overcoat, so I removed it, along with my Bowler to allow the sunlight to brighten my dull, gold hair. I felt like a black hole in the ground in comparison with the sprawling and encroaching green and white.
The frantic flapping of distressed feathers came to my ears. A bird had become trapped in the savage, green claws of the foliage. It probably wasn't used to all the greenery springing up everywhere. I was not sure I was used to it, either. The greenery which encroached upon the beautiful brown branches of the trees had obscured the soaring spire of the Cathedral from my sight at my usual vantage point of the North-West bench. Through the narrow gaps, however, I could discern the ten AM sun gilding the original Victorian architecture and lending a lustre to the hands and Roman numerals of the clock.
Surely, I thought to myself, the chime of the bells was less impressive as it had been when the cold weather had crisped the alloy. It was almost as if the potent toxicity of the psychedelic springtime had disorientated the bells, preventing them from performing at their best.
Despite all this, I was glad to see that the icy bondage of the winter months had melted to cool water. I could not repress a laugh as the huge furry blobs of bees buzzed around me with curiosity. Possibly, they were wondering what Welford Soar was doing, sitting in a patch of their pollen, scratching symbols onto a white sheet. Their clockwork buzz filled my ears, along with the sounds of the flying feathers and whistling beaks. The delicate chain of natural tunes from Nature's musical performers was upon me. What could I do but reach for my notebook and fountain pen?
It was not cool enough to need my overcoat, so I removed it, along with my Bowler to allow the sunlight to brighten my dull, gold hair. I felt like a black hole in the ground in comparison with the sprawling and encroaching green and white.
The frantic flapping of distressed feathers came to my ears. A bird had become trapped in the savage, green claws of the foliage. It probably wasn't used to all the greenery springing up everywhere. I was not sure I was used to it, either. The greenery which encroached upon the beautiful brown branches of the trees had obscured the soaring spire of the Cathedral from my sight at my usual vantage point of the North-West bench. Through the narrow gaps, however, I could discern the ten AM sun gilding the original Victorian architecture and lending a lustre to the hands and Roman numerals of the clock.
Surely, I thought to myself, the chime of the bells was less impressive as it had been when the cold weather had crisped the alloy. It was almost as if the potent toxicity of the psychedelic springtime had disorientated the bells, preventing them from performing at their best.
Despite all this, I was glad to see that the icy bondage of the winter months had melted to cool water. I could not repress a laugh as the huge furry blobs of bees buzzed around me with curiosity. Possibly, they were wondering what Welford Soar was doing, sitting in a patch of their pollen, scratching symbols onto a white sheet. Their clockwork buzz filled my ears, along with the sounds of the flying feathers and whistling beaks. The delicate chain of natural tunes from Nature's musical performers was upon me. What could I do but reach for my notebook and fountain pen?
Friday, 5 March 2010
Two Hands.
I am now going to describe the hands of two females with very different occupations.
The Hand of a Housewife: Short nails, worn down by constant nail biting, carry a perfect semi-circle of black grime which caps short, red fingers. The knuckles resemble crimson bolts. Their soreness and irritation is aggravated by constantly dunking the wearied digits into scalding hot washing up water with soap suds added. These suds send fat bubbles to the surface of the washbasin, shining in iridescence as the colours race over their skins. However, these very same suds that cast a liquid spectrum over a soap bubble can only colour the hands of a housewife a very painful looking red. Over the red surface, small white squares of flaked off skin glitter under the light.
Also glittering is the dull, scratched tube of gold that encircles the third finger. Embedded into the skin which grows up around it, the ring is fixed onto the overworked finger until the blood ceases to throb through it. This ring, a small circle of metal, a mere hoop, symbolises many unappealing tasks that the hand of a housewife must perform. For example, applying the palm forcibly and sharply to the unrepentant bottom of a naughty child, wiping waste products from an incontinent baby or curling into a loose fist to give a never-satisfied husband a strenuous handjob. That's the hand of a housewife.
The Hand of a Writer: Long, slim fingers are punctuated by delicate bones which, over the years have risen from their ordinary positions in order to grasp a pen more comfortably. Each finger resembles an uneven branch in a pure white birch tree of flesh. The pale knuckles are white berries, hard, ripe and unwrinkled. Above the fingers, ten white crescents grow just below the fingertip, filed down neatly and carefully. Their length is long enough to give the impression of pride and care in personal appearance, but short enough not to interfere with holding a pen or typing keys.
The third finger is possibly bare, or if it is ringed, it is encircled by a silver piece of intricate metal work, most likely commemorating a friendship, or even perhaps a romance, but it is certainly not an indication of female slavery in the rigid gaol of social convention.
This hand churns out short stories, writes novels, copies Latin words and turns the leaves of one-thousand-page long novels. Although it has a compulsion to see everything awash with disinfectant, it does not perform any of the daily chores of a wife's enslavement. It will only touch men on the writer's own terms. It will, of course, intertwine the long white fingers with those of a male intellectual, and, when sensuously charged with its own passionate blood, delve under the material divide of clothing and ravenously touch every part of a male intellectual's aroused body. The hand of a writer is governed only by its pen, not by a wedding ring.
The hand of a housewife, or the hand of a writer? I know which one I'd rather possess.
The Hand of a Housewife: Short nails, worn down by constant nail biting, carry a perfect semi-circle of black grime which caps short, red fingers. The knuckles resemble crimson bolts. Their soreness and irritation is aggravated by constantly dunking the wearied digits into scalding hot washing up water with soap suds added. These suds send fat bubbles to the surface of the washbasin, shining in iridescence as the colours race over their skins. However, these very same suds that cast a liquid spectrum over a soap bubble can only colour the hands of a housewife a very painful looking red. Over the red surface, small white squares of flaked off skin glitter under the light.
Also glittering is the dull, scratched tube of gold that encircles the third finger. Embedded into the skin which grows up around it, the ring is fixed onto the overworked finger until the blood ceases to throb through it. This ring, a small circle of metal, a mere hoop, symbolises many unappealing tasks that the hand of a housewife must perform. For example, applying the palm forcibly and sharply to the unrepentant bottom of a naughty child, wiping waste products from an incontinent baby or curling into a loose fist to give a never-satisfied husband a strenuous handjob. That's the hand of a housewife.
The Hand of a Writer: Long, slim fingers are punctuated by delicate bones which, over the years have risen from their ordinary positions in order to grasp a pen more comfortably. Each finger resembles an uneven branch in a pure white birch tree of flesh. The pale knuckles are white berries, hard, ripe and unwrinkled. Above the fingers, ten white crescents grow just below the fingertip, filed down neatly and carefully. Their length is long enough to give the impression of pride and care in personal appearance, but short enough not to interfere with holding a pen or typing keys.
The third finger is possibly bare, or if it is ringed, it is encircled by a silver piece of intricate metal work, most likely commemorating a friendship, or even perhaps a romance, but it is certainly not an indication of female slavery in the rigid gaol of social convention.
This hand churns out short stories, writes novels, copies Latin words and turns the leaves of one-thousand-page long novels. Although it has a compulsion to see everything awash with disinfectant, it does not perform any of the daily chores of a wife's enslavement. It will only touch men on the writer's own terms. It will, of course, intertwine the long white fingers with those of a male intellectual, and, when sensuously charged with its own passionate blood, delve under the material divide of clothing and ravenously touch every part of a male intellectual's aroused body. The hand of a writer is governed only by its pen, not by a wedding ring.
The hand of a housewife, or the hand of a writer? I know which one I'd rather possess.
Friday, 5 February 2010
Cathedral Courtyard
Time and again, I come to my favourite place in Leicester, the Cathedral Courtyard. I sit on whichever bench is free and gaze at the fine Gothic architecture. Each time I am here, I notice something new.
Today, I notice that the gateposts at the entrance to the courtyard bear two pinnacles. From an architectural point of view, they are identical. However, Nature has made her mark on them in different ways. The first one bears a fine juicy crown of green moss, like a Pagan king, whilst the second is clasped within the woody fingers of an ivy plant, growing up around it like Nature's armour.
The hexagonal pond near the gravestones shoots clear arcs of water into the air, making me thirsty. Although, these clean streams are belied by the green murkiness from which they shoot forth.
The temperature seems just perfect. It is not so cold that my exhalations form streaming clouds from my nose, and fingers are not so cold that can't grasp my pen. Yet the air still has that slight chill about it which makes the alloy of the bells crisper, bringing out a sharper, cleaner chime. If I look carefully between the slats of the bell tower, I can just see the movement of the bells as they clang sonorously, clappers striking hard against their well-worn interiors.
My eyes travel greedily once again up the Gothic style spire. My sight climbs all sixty-seven metres to where it tapers to the wires of a weather compass. Being an Anglican Cathedral, the spire is relatively plain. I almost think that there is nothing left upon it to captivate me, but no, I am wrong. At the very apex, just underneath the crucifix-shaped weather compass, there appears, through the thick lenses that I need to make me see properly, a three dimensional fleur-de-lis. Each tiny petal carved intricately by the hands of a strong stonemason.
To sit here under this spire in my black overcoat and Bowler hat inspires me with vivid images which must immediately be recorded in Welford Soar's notebook. Does it matter at all, if I reject Anglicanism? I am in awe of the stonemasons who fashioned this fine building. Does it matter if I do not worship the Christian God? Of course it doesn't! Why should it?
Today, I notice that the gateposts at the entrance to the courtyard bear two pinnacles. From an architectural point of view, they are identical. However, Nature has made her mark on them in different ways. The first one bears a fine juicy crown of green moss, like a Pagan king, whilst the second is clasped within the woody fingers of an ivy plant, growing up around it like Nature's armour.
The hexagonal pond near the gravestones shoots clear arcs of water into the air, making me thirsty. Although, these clean streams are belied by the green murkiness from which they shoot forth.
The temperature seems just perfect. It is not so cold that my exhalations form streaming clouds from my nose, and fingers are not so cold that can't grasp my pen. Yet the air still has that slight chill about it which makes the alloy of the bells crisper, bringing out a sharper, cleaner chime. If I look carefully between the slats of the bell tower, I can just see the movement of the bells as they clang sonorously, clappers striking hard against their well-worn interiors.
My eyes travel greedily once again up the Gothic style spire. My sight climbs all sixty-seven metres to where it tapers to the wires of a weather compass. Being an Anglican Cathedral, the spire is relatively plain. I almost think that there is nothing left upon it to captivate me, but no, I am wrong. At the very apex, just underneath the crucifix-shaped weather compass, there appears, through the thick lenses that I need to make me see properly, a three dimensional fleur-de-lis. Each tiny petal carved intricately by the hands of a strong stonemason.
To sit here under this spire in my black overcoat and Bowler hat inspires me with vivid images which must immediately be recorded in Welford Soar's notebook. Does it matter at all, if I reject Anglicanism? I am in awe of the stonemasons who fashioned this fine building. Does it matter if I do not worship the Christian God? Of course it doesn't! Why should it?
Thursday, 14 January 2010
The Coals that Glow
Pleasure is to draw up a comfortable chair to a large open fire and meditate upon the crackling coals. The heat surrounds you like a friendly embrace, making you perspire lightly into your clothes. This heat seeps pleasantly through your boots, massaging the life and feeling back into your numb toes. Your fingers redden in response to their heat bath and your eyes lose their expression as your stream-of-consciousness halts and the fire becomes a focus point for your contemplation.
As the fire destroys the coals in a shower of red sparks, their shapes assume familiar faces and treasured objects. Memories long forgotten, or swallowed down long before suddenly jolt from their seclusion in your mind to your conscious thoughts. You would never have given them mental input had you not sat down to warm yourself and drifted from one state of consciousness to another.
The grey tendrils of smoke, like slender waving fingers, carry the remains of the coal up the chimney, staining it black. They carry your thoughts and ideas with them. If the fire is burning from logs instead of coal, then these grey fingers are scented with sweet smelling steam. The steam acts as a very powerful drug, such as laudanum which caresses you into a gentle sleep, aided amply by the heat.
As you stare unblinkingly into the fire, it is only when your eyelids finally descend and rapidly retract that you realise that your eyeballs are dry from staring into the heat. This rouses you from whatever reverie you were ardently pursuing into your mundane stream-of-consciousness. You get up and reluctantly leave the fire to get extremely cold once again.
As the fire destroys the coals in a shower of red sparks, their shapes assume familiar faces and treasured objects. Memories long forgotten, or swallowed down long before suddenly jolt from their seclusion in your mind to your conscious thoughts. You would never have given them mental input had you not sat down to warm yourself and drifted from one state of consciousness to another.
The grey tendrils of smoke, like slender waving fingers, carry the remains of the coal up the chimney, staining it black. They carry your thoughts and ideas with them. If the fire is burning from logs instead of coal, then these grey fingers are scented with sweet smelling steam. The steam acts as a very powerful drug, such as laudanum which caresses you into a gentle sleep, aided amply by the heat.
As you stare unblinkingly into the fire, it is only when your eyelids finally descend and rapidly retract that you realise that your eyeballs are dry from staring into the heat. This rouses you from whatever reverie you were ardently pursuing into your mundane stream-of-consciousness. You get up and reluctantly leave the fire to get extremely cold once again.
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