Brahms's German Requiem At Canterbury Cathedral Poem by Jim Coleman

The soaring nave under which the pilgrims stood in awe -
a structure that contains a millennium,
a column for each century,
a stone block for every year.
.
England in stones, they say -
a repository of bones
of cries and oaths,
plain chant, murder,
litanies and revolution.
.
Privileged white heads
are ushered to their places reverentially.
Brought up to be polite and undemonstrative,
employing perfectly articulated words,
garnered from a carefully curated lexicon,
they greet each other
with restrained cries of calibrated joy
.
I sit, as usual a spectator not participant.
This is the tribe I was groomed
to be a member of
but never felt that I belonged.
.
The members of the choir slip in and mount the scaffolding in front of us,
A multitude of faces: white (some flushed) two brown.
No black ones though.
None in the audience either.
This event is not intended for the likes of them.
.
A cleric mounts the pulpit and reminds us that God is with us at this event.
He says a prayer on our behalf and our mouths dutifully respond ‘Amen'.
.
The conductor strides in
and we clap in acknowledgement
that this man can command the transubstantiation of
black notation into sacred sounds.
He bows, then turns, and lifts his baton.
We cough our final coughs and settle down uncomfortably on wooden chairs.
.
The nave is vast enough to hold the massive chords and pounding drums,
but lesser notes fly up and flit about above
or lose themselves in the maze of ribs that decorate the vault,
convoluted as doctrinal treatises.
.
During the boring bits I look around:
threadbare banners line the walls,
rescued from long forgotten battlefields
of discredited imperial derring-do,
and blessed by God;
stained glass tales of Medieval myths;
wall plaques to honour military men
and unknown dignitaries, all men;
flagstones worn by countless pilgrim shoes.
.
The soloists appear and sing their parts in turn,
their voices struggling to penetrate the incident-dense ancient air,
and then stand down.
.
At the end, the usual claps and cries, encores:
a ritual of bows and standing ups and sitting downs,
the maestro's sweeping hand to spread the claps around
(we play our parts as does the orchestra) .
Oh God! Here come the soloists again!
And so the clapping is egged on until we've had enough,
a charade of ecstatic joy which no-one feels
(we English don't feel ecstasy)
but perform to keep these rituals alive -
our world might be eclipsed if we don't shout and clap our hands.
.
Finally, en masse, we venture out into the night, relieved,
as if emerging from confession and
our penance done.