Me and My Beast

At six years old

I met a ghastly beast

A hound of hell

At very least

With gnashing teeth

All black and white

Eighty-eight with which to bite.

By seven the beast

Was even worse

Our weekly encounters

A child’s curse

The jaws did snap

The sinews twang

Sending me cowed back home again.

At eight I faced

My childish fear

With heart in mouth

And voice quavering clear

Declared that I was master here

And so for a time

We were doing great

Travelled together

Grades one to eight

Enjoyed successes

Made Mum proud

Played together

Impressed the crowd.

It seemed the beast

Was tamed at last

And people agreed

It had happened fast

Complacency however,

Is a dangerous thing

Learn to talk before you sing!

At sixteen years old

My beast was back

Hulking, crouching

Gleaming black

Glowering from the corner at me

Mocking mediocrity.

“You think you know me?”

It seemed to say

“You’ve barely started,

Hardly under way!”

So much more you need to learn

In order to the beast reform.

And so I locked myself away

Hour upon hour

Day after day

And spent my time

Playing the part

Practising hard

Re-learning my art.

And here I am

Most twenty years of age

My beast and I

On St Martin’s stage

And together we will play us

Beethoven, Chopin and Amadeus.

Undine

In Undine's mirror the cutpurse found
Five candlesticks by magic drowned,
Like boughs of silver . . . and pale as death,
Biting his beard, till the rogue's own breath
Shook all their gourds of fire, he stopped,
Eyed the gilt baskets, gaped half-round . . . .
Then down to the floor his pistol dropped . . . .
No sound in the dark rooms . . . the clank
Of metal and beam died fast . . . and flank
Pressed in strange fear to Undine's bed,
The robber stared long, and bent his head
To that soft wave . . . then hand on silk,
Plumbed the warm valley where nightly sank
Undine the water-maid, caved in milk.
And over those pools, the rogue could smell
Rich essences globed and stoppered well
On Undine's table . . . and row by row,
Jars of green china foamed stiff with snow,
And crystal trays and bottles of stone
Bowed like black slaves to that ivory shell,
The body of Undine . . . but Undine was gone.
Only below the candles' gleam,
In one small casket of waxen cream
With sidelong eyes the thief could follow
That rosy trough, the printed hollow
Of Undine's finger . . . then out to the street
He sprawled and fled . . . but still on the beam
His pistol waited for Undine's feet!

Undine the water sprite who craves a mortal soul has inspired generations of art, poetry and music including Carl Reinecke’s Flute Sonata. The sad story unfolds to an intimate audience at St Martin’s with Claire Overbury’s rich flute tones and Elspeth Wyllie’s delicate touch at the keyboard.

Would we wish an immortal soul on anyone?