Philharmonic, by Carol Ann Duffy

16 December 2013

Wounds in wood, where the wind grieves
in slow breves,
——————-or a breeze
hovers and heals; brass,
——————————bold as itself,
alchemical, blowing breath to blared gold;
all strings attached to silver sound.
This the composer found
——————————-in his deaf joy, despair,
and the genius boy; a where for time and space;
a place in endless air for perfect art-
a songbird’s flight
———————-through a great medieval hall
over the dancing dead.


As commemorative poems go, a pleasing one to mark the 200th anniversary of the Royal Philharmonic Society.

[Read in and ripped from The Guardian.]


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: