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The Outdoor Concert
—Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra at Wilton House, 2004
The long thick winding snake must stretch two hundred paces,
Of early birds in haste to grab the nicest places,
Buy programmes, chat. Their eager smiles creased wide on faces,
With open gates, they rush to bag their favoured spaces.
And there, in shadow lies the stage, great silver shell—
A lost spacecraft? Quite still it yawns in that green dell.
Far left, in Portland stone, the big house weathers well,
Provides the perfect backdrop for the casting of the spell.
Check-shirted men haul folded tables, wearing sandals,
While wives lug dishes, firmly grasping basket handles.
Giggling students sprawl in gaggles—saints and vandals—
Search around for sex and laughs, and maybe scandals.
Hot bodies crammed in groups on grass are gathered
On deckchairs or no chairs. In hats with trims of heather,
And Barbours, brollies, weapons for all types of weather,
The Joneses, kept up with, pop champagne in leather.
The baton waves, first notes from wind and brass now sound;
Strings sing, their songs transported far across the ground.
Mouths full, guests sip and sigh; approving nods abound,
Eyes on that stage: the silver shell its life has found.
Great music brings warm peace as day becomes cool night.
Six thousand held subdued; the shell beams fulgent light.
Entranced, they sit and drink the sound, the wondrous sight.
The house is almost blackness; odd stray lights shine bright.
Now “Land of Hope and Glory” sounds, the end is nigh;
Wild waving lamps and candles sign a fond goodbye.
Their vivid lights and shooting stars make bright the sky,
Crash! Bang! the final notes mean home with spirits high.
And thus the concert ends. Mass exodus begins.
All in must out: gear dragged, waste bagged, scraps dumped in bins.
Cars, packed, an endless train streams out—sardines in tins.
The site, now stripped of light, is left with night’s cold winds.
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Tod Benjamin lives in Bournemouth, England, and is a retired businessman who, after years of globetrotting in the chemical business, wintered in Florida as a retiree golfer until forced to give up golf. He has written, for his own pleasure over many years, short stories, essays, novels, and, whenever he has to express a cry from his heart, poetry.
Thank you, Tod. There’s a lot of lovely and sharp observation in your poem, and much skill in the construction, especially the multiple rhymes.
It seems Bournemouth is a breeding ground for poets…and concert goers.
Ha ha ha!!! Thanks Michael – and thanks to Tod for the poem. Yes, I think it was at Wilton House that I saw the great Steven Isserlis play the Bach Cello Suites, which was a marvellous experience a few years back.
You paint a clear picture, Tod. I feel like j was there, hovering overhead.
Thanks for the read.