Matt Monro Forum

THE TIME DRAWS NEAR

The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,
From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fall, as if a door
Were shut between me and the sound.

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill to all mankind.

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)


Whether it be Christmas, Diwali (Hindu),
Eid (Muslim) or Hannuhka (Judaism),
it seems to me that the festivals simply celebrate
diverse routes to the same destination:


THE RIGHT ROADS

There is a wide network of ways to God,
and history tells us how some were trod;
it matters not the route you choose to take,
what does is the whole journey that you make.

Keith Good

Very nice thoughts Keith. However, did you mean the title to be "Verses for Advent" or is there some message of conflict here?
Marian

Thanks Marian, I guess the message is that the old
faculties aren't as razor-sharp as they used to be -
if they ever were. 'Conflict' is the antithesis of what
I was trying to convey. I'm grateful for your rescuing
Maid Marian act.
Keith

I SAW A STABLE

I saw a stable, low and very bare,
A little child in a manger,
The oxen knew Him, had Him in their care,
To men He was a stranger;
The safety of the world was lying there,
And all the world's danger.

Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907)

The following poem was found behind the vestry door
of All Saints Church, Four oaks, Sutton Coldfield. Although
written anonymously, the finger of suspicion was pointed
at Bob the organist. No singing frustrations, such as those
reflected herein, were ever visited on our eponymous hero.

THE ALTO'S LAMENT

It's tough to be an alto when you're singing in the choir,
The sopranos get the twiddly bits that people all admire,
The basses boom like loud trombones, the tenor shout with glee,
But the alto part is on two notes(or if you're lucky three).

And when we sing an anthem and we lift our hearts in praises
The men get all the juicy bits and telling little phrases.
Of course the trebles sing the tune - they always come off best;
The altos only get three notes and twenty-two bars rest.

We practise very hard each week from hymn book and the Psalter,
But when the conductor looks at us our voices start to falter;
'Too high! Too low! Too fast! - you held that note too long!'
It doesn't matter what we do - it's certain to be wrong!

Oh! shed a tear for altos, they're the martyrs and they know
In the ranks of choral singers they're considered very low.
They are so very 'umble that a lot of folk forget 'em;
How they'd love to be sopranos, but their vocal chords won't let 'em.

And when the final trumpet sounds and we are wafted higher,
Sopranos, basses, tenors - they'll be in the Heavenly choir.
While they sing 'Alleluia!' to celestial flats and sharps,
The altos will be occupied with polishing the harps.

Keith

The poem above Keith, bewailing the fate of the altos, reminded me of a time our hospice took part in a fund raising concert at Christmas time.
The choir found they were a few short in number, so they asked for volunteers, and Peter and I found we were to be part of The Halleleuiah Chorus!!
Taking one look at me, the choir master mumbled "you look like an alto" and I was directed to a certain position in the choir and a book of music thrust in my hands. I'm not sure where Peter went, but he was there somewhere.
As we had never been part of a choir before, it was 'in at the deep end' to be sure.
However, it turned out to be an exciting experience and we were so glad we had taken part. Whether we added anything to the performance was another matter entirely, I'm sure we didn't, but it was great fun!
One thing that amazed me was the amount of chat and comments that went on between the choir members during the performance. If I hadn't actually been there, I would never have believed it!
Marian

Marian, your revealing choir-singing anecdote in turn
reminded me of my days as a young chorister, and the
subsequent enduring 'appeal' the sound of church bells
has for me, 'the pure exhilaration we feel':

CHILDHOOD IN IRELAND

The Ballymodan Church bells ring
as joyful sallies fly,
and rhythm-rich cadences fling
round Bandon town and sky.

A sound that echoes through the years,
a distant summons pealing,
evoking with nostalgic tears,
a heartfelt homesick feeling.

And memories of Castle Road,
the trips up to the park,
returning with a smuggled load
of tree limbs, after dark.

Of happy evenings that we shared
in the Bellringers social club,
of Saturdays when Dad repaired
to Mary Burke's old pub.

Of hurling matches in the street
on days we played for Cork,
the magic spells - on teams we'd beat -
of Christy Ring would work.

Of solo singing in the choir
and Mother's proud elation,
indoors to Yule logs on the fire -
a double celebration!

St Patrick's twin-close, yet aloof,
of kindly omnipotence,
whose flock we joined in formal, foolproof
friendly co-existence.

The days our little car broke down
come bell-clear back to me,
enjoying picnics outside town
instead of by the sea.

Now memories that tend to wane,
in the wearing hands of time,
are vividly recalled again
whenever church bells chime.

Keith Good

That was so evocative Keith--I can picture it all in my mind.

Thanks Mariana. Some thought-provoking lines
by a favourite poet of mine:

THE REMINDER

While I watch the Christmas blaze
Paint the room with ruddy rays,
Something makes my vision glide
To the frosty scene outside.

There, to reach a rotting berry,
Toils a thrush - constrained to very
Dregs of food by sharp distress,
Taking such with thankfulness.

Why, O starving bird, when I
Our day's joy would justify,
And put misery out of view,
Do you make me notice you?

Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)

Keith

One of George's favourite poets---but I have never heard that one--neither I think had George--but I know that he would have liked it -very much.

MUSIC ON CHRISTMAS MORNING

Music I love - but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine -
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne ...

Anne Bronte (1820-49)

Keith

PS The poet never heard,
far as we know,
the morning-gladsome voice
of Matt Monro.

Yule was a northern Europe midwinter festival
that was absorbed into Christmas. It derives from
the Nordic 'Jol' and is thought to be where the word
'jolly' comes from. I hope my fellow forum members
will enter the jolly exuberant spirit of Christmas
engendered by this eighteenth-century poet who,
surprisingly, preferred to remain anonymous:

O YOU MERRY, MERRY SOULS

O you merry, merry souls,
Christmas is a-coming;
We shall have flowing bowls,
Dancing, piping, drumming.

Delicate minced pies
To feast every virgin,
Capon and goose likewise,
Brawn and a dish of sturgeon.

Then, for your Christmas box,
Sweet plum cakes and money,
Delicate holland smocks,
Kisses sweet as honey.

Hey for the Christmas ball,
Where we shall be jolly;
Jigging short and tall,
Kate, Richard, Ralph and Molly.

Then to the hop we'll go,
Where we'll jig and caper;
Maidens all-a-row;
Will shall play the scraper.

Hodge shall dance with Prue,
Keeping time with kisses;
We'll have a jovial crew
Of sweet smirking misses.

Keith
(Be still my dancing feet!)

At this spiritual time of year we may be forgiven for thinking
that Christmas, like other religious festivals, is no more than
a feel-good ritual superstition that lifts the gloom of current cares.
My faith is fortified daily by wondrous occurrences in life:

INSIGHTS

It's when inspiration precludes
any great mental exertion;
when the poem appears on the page
almost of its own volition.
When your ball kicks fortuitously
towards the flag
in a manner commonplace grand,
and the winning putt curves into the cup
as though helped by an unseen hand.

When opposing WW1 armies play
a truce football match on Christmas Day,
and Earthrise, 'A Christmas tree ornament lit up in space,'
the Apollo-promoted saviour of the human race.

A calm sea slicing the setting sun
captured by Turner for everyone,
or Bandon's twin churches in crisp night air
overlooked in close floodlit splendour
from ambient Allen Square.
Even the propitious primrose,
with woodsage and bramble intertwined
carpeting a woodland floor;
these are mere random examples,
there are myriads - to be marvelled at - more.

Keith Good

Note. To mark the new millennium
my home town completed a combined
church floodlighting project; a heartwarming
gesture of togetherness in a region with
a history of ethnic and religious divisions.