Not At A Loss Chord - After Adelaide Anne Procter – A Lost Chord Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Not At A Loss Chord - After Adelaide Anne Procter – A Lost Chord

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Not at a Loss Chord

Playing one day with my organ,
I was blissful – not ill at ease -
while five fingers wandered wildly
web-cams recording each wheeze.

I know the spot vibrating,
less what I was dreaming then,
but I strummed with both will and spirit
and an “Oh My God! Amen! ”

Adrenaline flowed not vainly
from heart to crimson palm,
as it coursed both veins and spirit
with little akin to calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
like love overcoming strife;
it seem[en]ed orgasmic echo
to tune discordant life.

It linked all perplexèd meanings
into one perfect peace,
and trembled away into silence
although I was loth to cease.

I have sought, and I seek not vainly,
that one G spot divine,
which linked my soul to the organ
so manifestly mine.

La petite morte delightful
strikes shivering molten core,
as this little verse insightful
calls for en corps encore!


It may be that Death's bright angel
will speak in that chord again,
for it’s surely in seventh Heaven
one sings “Oh My God! Amen! ”


Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord
8 April 2007

ROBIN Jonathan 1947_2006 robi3_1338_proc1_0001 PXY_MXX Not at a Loss Chord_Playing one day with my organ
A Lost Chord

Seated one day at the Organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexéd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.


Adelaide Anne PROCTER



PROCTER Adelaide Anne 1825_1864 proc1_0001_proc1_0000 PXX_MXX A Lost Chord_Seated on day at the organ

The Lost Chord

Seated one morn at my organ
I was restless and ill-at-ease,
For I had supped too freely
On Kummel and toasted cheese.

I know not what I was playing,
And I wasn’t playing well,
But I struck one chord of music
That lifted the lid off hell.

It howled like a mad gorilla,
It yelped like a blue baboon
As it munches the wild Manilla
In the Mountains of the Moon.

It tied up the simplest meansings
In horrible knots and twists;
It shrouded the dazzling sunlight
In the murk of miasmic mists.

It was barbarous, botulistic,
It linked the Chimaera’s boom
With a dismal, Bedlamistic
And super-decanal gloom.

It shattered my topmost skylight,
It splintered my study door,
And it died away in the twilight
With a galliambic snore.

Oh, I strive with passionate longing
That wondrous chord to recall,
And compose a rhapsody on it
For the Queen’s or the Albert Hall.

I have sought – but I seek it vainly –
That chord so cruel and keen
Which entered the soul of the organ
From the soul of Scriabin.

It may be that Death’s euphonium
That chord some day will sound;
But only in Pandemonium
Will its full effects be found.

Charles Larcom GRAVES Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord

GRAVES Charles Larcom 1856_1944 grav1_0004_grav1_0000 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one morn at my organ

GRAVES Charles Larcom 1856_1944 grav1_0004_proc1_0001 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one morn at my organ

The Lost Word




Seated one day at the typewriter,
I was weary of a's and e's,
And my fingers wandered wildly,
Over the consonant keys.

I know not what I was writing,
With that thing so like a pen;
But I struck one word astounding -
Unknown to the speech of men.

It flooded the sense of my verses,
Like the break of a tinker's dam,
And I felt as one feels when the printer
Of your 'infinite calm' makes clam.

It mixed up s's and x's
Like an alphabet coming to strife.
It seemed the discordant echo
Of a row between husband and wife.

It brought a perplexed meaning
Into my perfect piece,
And set the machinery creaking
As though it were scant of grease.

I have tried, but I try it vainly,
The one last word to divine
Which came from the keys of my typewriter
And so would pass as mine.

It may be some other typewriter
Will produce that word again,
It may be, but only for others -
‘I ‘ shall write henceforth with a pen.



John PAUL Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER 1825_1864 A Lost Chord

PAUL John paul3_0001_paul3_0001 PWX_IXX The Lost Word_Seated one day at the typewriter

PAUL John paul3_0001_proc1_0001 PWX_IXX The Lost Word_Seated one day at the typewriter



A Lost Sister

Whisper your Mother’s Name

I was seated one day in a gilded café
In a window that looked on the street
A face caught my eye in a crowd passing by
And I hastedly sprang to my feet

It was my sister's sad face, I had left home to trace
Through her pride she had left us one day
And it brought back to me, as plain as could be
My mother as I heard her say

CHORUS 'If you should see your sister
do not reproach or blame
Tell her how we've missed her
I love her just the same
Say my darling the words that you've brought her
whether in pride or shame
Say that she's still my daughter
Whisper your mother's name'
(Yodel) EEE-yew-dee-oh-lee-oh-lady-ee-hee
yodeledee-yodeledee-hee

There were tears on her face as she passed by the place
and I hastedly sprang to her side
As we walked along I said, 'Nell, we were wrong
We are sorry we wounded your pride.

Your sweetheart is true and still waiting for you
We are willing now you should wed
If you'll only come back, you can marry your Jack
and please your dear mother who says'


CHORUS

Jimmie RODGERS Parody PROCTER Adelaide Anne 1825_1864 A Lost Chord


RODGERS Jimmie rodg1_0001_rodg1_0000 PXX_JXX A Lost Sister_Seated one day in a gilded café

RODGERS Jimmie rodg1_0001_proc1_0001 PXX_JXX A Lost Sister_Seated one day in a gilded café

The Lost Chord





Seated one day at the organ
I jumped as if I’d been shot,
For the Dean was upon me, snarling
‘Stainer – and make it hot.’

All week I swung Stainer and Barnby,
Bach, Gounod, and Bunnett in A;
I said, ‘Gosh, the old bus is a wonder! ”
The Dean, with a nod, said “Okay”.





D.B. Wyndham LEWIS
Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER 1825_1864 A Lost Chord





LEWIS D.B. Wyndham 1894_1969 lewi1_0002_lewi1_0000 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one day at the organ

LEWIS D.B. Wyndham 1894_1969 lewi1_0002_proc1_0001 PXX_JXX The Lost Chord_Seated one day at the organ

The Lost Discord



Standing one day at his organ,
The grinder seemed quite at ease,
With his monkey idly chasing
The far too-industrious fleas.
I know not what he was playing
(for I was composing then) ,
But I heard someone curse that organ,
And I murmured a great ‘Amen! ’

That discord, it filled the silence
With a sound as of tom-cats lorn;
It racked my brain like a nightmare,
It was worse than an oil-cloth torn.
It was like inharmonious yelling;
It made all the street-dogs whine,
It seems that the soul of that organ
Had spitefully gone for mine.

So I made for that organ-grinder
And swore that I’d break each limb;
And his monkey his fleased ceased chasing,
When he saw I meant chasing him.
It may be in some other quarter
He’s playing that air – and then,
If someone is smashing his organ,
I’ll fervently say, “Amen! ”



Author Unknown ‘Judy’ 26 May 1886
Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER 1825_1864 A Lost Chord



pseud Judy PSju1_0004_PUNau_0000 PWX_JXX The Last Discord_Standing one day at his organ

pseud Judy PSju1_0004_proc1_0001 PWX_JXX The Last Discord_Standing one day at his organ

The Lost Drink

Seated one day at a café,
I was thirsty and hot as the sphinx,
And my tongue went babbling idly
Over the names of drinks.
I knew not what I was saying,
Nor what I had uttered then:
But the garçon brought me a mixture
Like a gift of the gods to men.

Its colour a blushing scarlet
Like the tip of a toper’s nose,
And it tickled my fever’d palate
With its flow and after-glows.
It trickled down my gullet
Like oil down a red-hot pipe;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From some supernal swipe.

It linked vin rouge and choice ligueur
Into one perfect drop,
And guggled away down my gullet
As if it were loth to stop.
I have sought – but I seek it vainly –
That one lost drink divine,
Which was mixed by that garçon du café
With curaçoa and red wine.

It may be that some chance garçon
May bring me that drink again;
It may be that some day in Paris
I may utter its name. But then
I never could find that café,
And lost to mortal ken
Is that supernal boisson
Like a gift of the gods to men!

Author Unknown ‘Judy’ 27 October 1886
Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord


pseud Judy PSju1_0003_PUNau_0000 PXX_JXX The Lost Drink_Seated one day at a café


The Lost Organ




Seated one day at the organ
With an audience ill-at-ease,
I pulled the stop marked “Bird-song, ”
And the one marked “Autumn Breeze.”
I switched on the rosy lighting,
And when all was ready to start,
I added a touch of thunder –
And the organ fell apart.



John Bingham MORTON 1893_1979 - Dr Strabismus 1949
Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord


MORTON J B 1893_1979 mort1_0005_mort1_0000 PWX_MXX The Lost Organ_Seated one day at the organ



The Lost Voice


Seated at Church in the winter
I was frozen in every limb,
And the village choir shrieked wildly
Over a noisy hymn.

I do not know what they were singing,
But while I was watching them
Our Curate began his sermon
With the sound of a slight “Ahem! ”

It frightened the female portion
Like the storm which succeeds a calm,
Both maidens and matrons heard it
With a touch of inane alarm.

It told them of pain and sorrow,
Cold, cough, and neuralgic strife,
Bronchitis and influenza
All aimed at our Curate’s life.

It linked all perplex’d diseases
Into one precious frame;
They trembled with rage if a sceptic
Attempted to ask its name.

They have wrapped him in mustard plasters,
Stuffed him with food and wine,
They have fondled, caressed, and nursed him
With sympathy divine.

It may be that other Curates
Will preach in that church to them,
Will there be every time, Good Heavens!
Such fuss for a slight – Ahem! ?

Author Unknown pseud A.H.S.
Parody Adelaide Anne PROCTER – A Lost Chord

pseud A.H.S. PSah1_0001_proc1_0001 PWX_JXX The Last Voice_Seated at Church in the winter

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