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Andrew Rudd |
Andrew Rudd lives in Cheshire and teaches at Manchester Metropolitan University. Currently engaged in a Ph.D. working on poetry and spirituality. Poems published in magazines and some competition success – notably the Cheshire Prize for Literature (First) and Ledbury (2nd) in 2004. Web site: http://business.virgin.net/sound.houses
Lucinda
no more symphonies
no more orchestras
these days it's your songs
I keep playing over and over
your dirty-girl vowels
smeared across swaggering
reckless guitar, basement
drums, catch of laughter
edge of tears – dark
surface of knowing – a swig
of innocence, a gulp of despair
a half-empty bottle
The voice cracks
Between the notes of the song
the voice cracks – a skin-split, a fissure
in the earth. Lean over, look down
into gristle, bone, marrow.
This moment of moments –
lurch of the ski-lift over the edge
cliff falling away beneath –
that's what music is for,
to pull the air into tension
where the voice cracks – the singer
led blindfold out to the wall.
The fusillade. The clapping.
Summertime
In brittle daylight
they stood in the kitchen –
she made a comment
about his singing.
Birds were showing off
their territorial ringtones,
then the dishwasher sang
of digestion and torrential rain;
until his song – words
and music for her alone,
her body answering
its easy rendition.