The Concertina Player

Rocking stiffly in the boom-chik beat
The body of the concertina player is
Taken over by something that comes
From the music under the music.

Vibrations of the wagon and the whip
Come drumming through arms that are
Helpless mediators, from fingers that
Do not listen to any prescriptions of
Score but trembling press the silver
Nipples for more amd more of particular
Pain more joltings of images until the
Rhythm settles down and even the violinist
Stops peering awkwardly along the bow.

Time disjoints itself, the organist starts
Sweating and the music is sent rocking out
Over a crowd comatose in a binding nostalgia.

Far forsaken plains come drifting in on the beat
The bloodsoak of the hunter melts the leopard's
Mask, flames eat into mud walls and barriers,
An elephant slews across the blindness of the
Boom-chik boom-chikka boom-chik as the death
Shout of a thousand warriors echoes along the
Rigid arms and frantic finger tips to the source
The source of suffering that malingers in the past.

The concertina player's face is overtaken
By the effort of this intricate interpretation.
A grimace stretches like a bowstring across
Cheekbones, eyes half-closed keep the vision
Alive in suspension - there is more more more
In the silver studs in the reed hollows the valves -
There is blood on the arms in the sand under the
Stones there is pain in the silences between beats.

Beyond the small shriek of the violin the boom of
Guns throbs dully. The drummer no longer belongs
To his own sound. Only the concertina keeps pulsating,
Pumping images through the pattern of the music,
Keeping history intact, re-arranging the parts,
Admitting no strangers.