I know this is not strictly a poem, its more prose poetry but it fits more here than anywhere else.
This is a memory of friday night practice in the cathedral when i was a chorister.
A Memory
My breath steams out like dragon’s smoke in front of me as I chant sleepily, following, not leading. It’s already like the depths of night outside, yet it’s only 6. The psalm mingles with the sound of constant rhythmic rain, echoing of the cool stone walls and high decorated arches. The building is empty apart from the 19 of us, here, singing dutifully on. In the soft, flickering candlelight the statues of angels and archangels seem, perhaps, to be moving. Waking up and soaring around in the vacant space between the many windows of vibrant glass. Free.
Perhaps I’m just slightly too tired.
The simple plainsong stops and the anthem begins, quiet at first, then in time rising in a beautiful crescendo to the climax. Until you feel you can’t ever sing loud enough, and the music goes right inside you, having filled up all the empty space that it can, pressing against you from inside and out so that all at once its slightly too hard to breath, and I don’t feel very well. The lights are behaving oddly and there is a tingling in the tips of my fingers. The music sends a rippling sensation all through my body, raising hairs.
I sit down with a jolt, the music goes on. Someone asks me if I am ok and I am not sure how to answer…I suppose not, but I don’t want to leave the music. Wrapped in my blue cloak, I shuffle to the vestry. This feels like a dream.
After a while I go outside. Lifting my face to the indigo sky I breathe in the clear night air, feel the refreshing rain on my face, soothing, calming.
My breath steams out like dragon’s smoke in front of me. The music continues in my mind.
All in all very well written and brillant in standard.