Proms
To mark the 1990 premiere of "The Confession Of Isabel Gowdie" by James Macmillan, performed by the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra under Jerzy Maksymiuk.
Erupting from the placid pit
rumbles a transient storm -
convulsing beneath restless fingers,
like enraged hornets defending the nest,
and then - to drown in the softly falling rain
of tubular bells, shaken from a fantail's wing,
to drip upon my eyes at will.
Down in the deep, simmers passion
beneath hypnotic appraisal,
Lining the acoustic lung
In waves of appreciative poise;
their mouths still; their souls tormented
by the sufferings of the moody sax,
In pained allegiance to Jerzy Mak.
Suddenly, an intrusion of Inexorable joy
stirs the varnished sea of hearts and bows.
The French horn, rich and mellow,
and as sincere as the sperm whale's song,
indulges the breathless wake of mankind,
sublimely spouting her cri de coeur,
from a labyrinth of twisting silver throat.
Oh, Isabel! The tranquil ghost of Clarinet
whispers your sorrows to the moon
as the baton slices through the air
with resplendent cavalier boast,
alive to the most glorious of things,
that I should wonder
From life's crowded womb,
Such divine afflatus springs.
Alas, the swell prevails
and spawns the cymbal’s poignant charm
amidst a heckle of fluted scorn,
yielding to the beating drum,
and withers at the birth of dawn.
Erupting from the placid pit
rumbles a transient storm -
convulsing beneath restless fingers,
like enraged hornets defending the nest,
and then - to drown in the softly falling rain
of tubular bells, shaken from a fantail's wing,
to drip upon my eyes at will.
Down in the deep, simmers passion
beneath hypnotic appraisal,
Lining the acoustic lung
In waves of appreciative poise;
their mouths still; their souls tormented
by the sufferings of the moody sax,
In pained allegiance to Jerzy Mak.
Suddenly, an intrusion of Inexorable joy
stirs the varnished sea of hearts and bows.
The French horn, rich and mellow,
and as sincere as the sperm whale's song,
indulges the breathless wake of mankind,
sublimely spouting her cri de coeur,
from a labyrinth of twisting silver throat.
Oh, Isabel! The tranquil ghost of Clarinet
whispers your sorrows to the moon
as the baton slices through the air
with resplendent cavalier boast,
alive to the most glorious of things,
that I should wonder
From life's crowded womb,
Such divine afflatus springs.
Alas, the swell prevails
and spawns the cymbal’s poignant charm
amidst a heckle of fluted scorn,
yielding to the beating drum,
and withers at the birth of dawn.