Music for 12 Clarinets

Listening to New York Counterpoint by Steve Reich

Note sure I feel worthy enough to write anything here. You know when things keep progressing in a satisfactory manner and then catastrophe theory dictates that everything switched round and the path is in some other direction. I am not going to try and please anyone other than myself today. It is impossible to sail a course down the middle of all the requirements put upon one by simple day-to-day things.

The House Full Of Toys

A strong scent here,
the smell of things left out,
to clear themselves
after years in the attic,
in the dark.

I think of all these toys,
with eyes and minds
and place them high
up in the room,
so that they may see
all that happens here.

I build my birth high
in coloured towers
made with bricks and
waterwork to steal all sound
and make it hide again.

They take me, insensible
up the ladder to their prison
and have me tied down in boxes
where the winter wind
comes in the gaps
and freezes them.

A year of dark immobility
has made them mad at me
enough to spike me,
pain me with their safe eyes
pulled out and sharp
and dangerous.