The Sound of the SpheresA Poem by David Lewis PagetI had some fun with this one....The
Rastenberg Philharmonic had sat, Were
shuffling in their seats, And
tuning their various instruments To
play ‘The Survivor Suite’. It
had only been played just once before, They
knew they were taking a chance, The
conductor and several cellists had gone Right
after Svrili’s Dance! One
moment, the baton was waved in the air, The
next, the podium was clear, A
cellist had sawed at an awful E flat Before
he had disappeared; Then
holes had appeared in the group at the front Where
cellists and violins sat, And
all that was left of the treble bassoon Was
a sandwich, under his hat. It
wasn’t as if they hadn’t been warned For
Borchnik appeared on the stage, ‘I
scribbled this suite in a white hot heat As
I paced, in a boiling rage! For
those sitting close to the glockenspiel, They
really should cover their ears, For
once that crescendo of flute, lute and cello Is
heard - that’s the Sound of the Spheres!’ Karamov
turned to the audience, bowed, Then
tapped with his baton, twice, He
wouldn’t be fazed to the end of his days Though
the Devil was tumbling the dice! He
looked at the fear-crazed Orchestra Who’d
heard about Borchnik’s curse, Then
launched them in to The Wages of Sin As
an introductory verse! The
music was nothing like you would expect, It
capered and trilled, and it soared, It
spoke of the aeons of military might, Of
the soldier that fell on his sword, The
audience sat with their open jaws As
it thrilled and it burst into flight, And
carried them out where the planets sang In
a paean to endless night! The
music it raged, and the music roared And
it came to Svrili’s Dance, A
blonde violinist took off for the door, No
way was she taking a chance! A
hole opened over a cellist’s head And
swallowed the glockenspiel, While
Karamov’s face went as white as the dead When
he found himself out in a field! The
Orchestra, crazed, seemed unable to stop, The
instruments sang in their hands, The
audience freaked as the piccolo peaked And
the harpsichord melted in strands, They
made for the exits in panic and fear For
the horror that waited outside, A
mammoth was leaning against the front door, And
a raptor was caught in mid-stride. It
took seven weeks for the madness to stop, And
Borchnik was run out of town, While
Karamov wanders where dinosaurs crop, Conducting
some thoughts of his own. The
Rastenberg Orchestra‘s now in recess, Unlikely
to play now for years, The
musicians agree that there isn’t a fee That
would bring back the Sound of the Spheres! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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