Whispering grass
Whispering grass
Day 17: move backwards in time away from such modern contrivances as podcasts and write a poem that features forgotten technology.
A late 60s afternoon, two sisters
With nothing to do but get up to mischief.
The radiogram beckoned us from its corner,
Its stiff lid hinged open, to reveal
The turntable with its central spindle
The three-speed turntable dial.
So far, so familiar -
We used it to play the vinyl '45s,
Top twenty hits bought with our own pocket money
From the back of the ironmonger's in town.
But, we were drawn to the ancient, off limits '78s
Nestled in their brown paper covers
Each missing middle circle revealing the artist's name:
Glen Miller, Jim Reeves, The Inkspots.
We checked the coast was clear
Laid out the heavy black circles
On the swirly lounge carpet to get a better look.
We didn't consider the dangers
Could not forsee the point of no return,
The brittle crack and shatter
Of decades old shellac.
We knew we were in trouble,
But after the shock of the moment
And the inevitable disgrace and telling off
We mourned the loss of the magical sounds
That could no longer swell out from the tiny speaker,
Filling our lives with the beat of times now lost.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Day 17: move backwards in time away from such modern contrivances as podcasts and write a poem that features forgotten technology.
A late 60s afternoon, two sisters
With nothing to do but get up to mischief.
The radiogram beckoned us from its corner,
Its stiff lid hinged open, to reveal
The turntable with its central spindle
The three-speed turntable dial.
So far, so familiar -
We used it to play the vinyl '45s,
Top twenty hits bought with our own pocket money
From the back of the ironmonger's in town.
But, we were drawn to the ancient, off limits '78s
Nestled in their brown paper covers
Each missing middle circle revealing the artist's name:
Glen Miller, Jim Reeves, The Inkspots.
We checked the coast was clear
Laid out the heavy black circles
On the swirly lounge carpet to get a better look.
We didn't consider the dangers
Could not forsee the point of no return,
The brittle crack and shatter
Of decades old shellac.
We knew we were in trouble,
But after the shock of the moment
And the inevitable disgrace and telling off
We mourned the loss of the magical sounds
That could no longer swell out from the tiny speaker,
Filling our lives with the beat of times now lost.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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