Music and poetry - guest post by Harry Gallagher
Today I welcome another guest on my site writing about the impact music has had on their lives, and in this case their writing. I’m delighted to welcome Harry Gallagher as my guest. Though I was well aware of his work and strong reputation as a local poet, I first met Harry only recently through a friend and fellow author Sue Miller. The three of us ran an event on the theme of dystopia at a cafe in Newcastle a couple of months ago. Harry entertained us all with his dazzling and thought provoking wordplay, as well as acting as a terrific compere. Harry shares a few thoughts on music and a couple of his own poems on the theme. If you haven’t seen Harry perform or read any of his work I recommend you check it out. He is a rare talent and entertainer.
Enjoy!
So how does music influence my writing? It’s difficult to say because without even thinking about it, music is central in my life. It’s everywhere, to the extent I never even think anymore about whether it influences what I write. I think – for me at least – the best poetry has a musicality that wafts through it and carries it along imperceptibly. It’s one of the key factors in differentiating it from prose. So rather than waffling on about it (the theory of something always kills the thing itself in my experience – ask children how dull they find Shakespeare when taught as a staid piece, rather than watched as a piece of theatre, as the man himself intended) I thought I’d share a couple of my own favourite ‘musical’ poems below. Thanks for reading!
Staggering
He negotiates the tables
like a babe on trapeze -
with ease
Floats into his seat,
landing cushioned by a chaser
big enough to drown in
and it is quickly chased
down.
In one motion the fiddle
levitates
into caressing hands
and fingertips land
on beloved strings.
The bow swings and sways
the remnants of the day
away.
Hearts burst from his fingers
and pop in the air
for the boy who loves it all
just too much.
Miss Ellerby
Miss Ellerby briefly played piano
beneath fast flickering film.
A life in black and white,
her Henry having succumbed
to the guns of Passchendaele,
a crimson crochet
on a swaying stave.
And when the pictures started talking
this redundant ivory charmer
became piano teacher extraordinaire,
day and night breathing life
into the bodies of work
of long dead composers.
Month after year stretching her patience
and her cardigan elbows
on Mozart resistant children
and sausage fingered heretics
until Evensong was played for her
by a pianist she’d never heard of.
And the kids-turned-adults
who had called her a witch
and had sucked painfully on
the Benelyn flavoured bricks
she dished out as boiled sweets
gathered to share our stories.
And the spine tinglers
which flowed from her
anytime we’d listen
were held like fragile lovers.
And as we looked at our fingers
dancing over invisible keys
the truth was revealed,
scarier than any ghoul.
That the old witch had seeped
her magic through knuckles and skin,
for all the time we had sniggered behind hands,
the spell had been sinking in.
Harry is a widely published poet, both in the UK and abroad. He performs nationally and his next book, 'Northen Lights' is due out in September. www.harrygallagherpoet.wordpress.com
