POEM INSPIRED BY TRADITIONAL MUSIC SESSION

WASPS IN THE SESSION

There’s a wasp in the session, zig-zagging

among the dancing fiddle bows. I can see

the hills of Clare from a window behind

the keyboard accompanist, who’s annoyed

by the presence of the wasp. Neophytes sit 

with instruments en garde, in expectation 

of doing battle with a jig they’ve learned.

Nattering non-stop, another wasp 

plonks himself in a chair reserved for players:

music has pressed his talk-button. Praise

in this culture is reticent, addressed

to the instrument – That whistle is going well

for you – or to the time and toil devoted

to the craft –  It’s not today nor yesterday

you took up the fiddle. A stout countryman

pauses on his way from the Gents and stares

at the lead fiddler as if staring could

yield up the point, the mystery of the music.

When the global economy collapses,

these tunes will still be played – wasps or no wasps.

A dozen or so digital recorders,

some of them so small they must have been

designed by Flann O’Brien’s Third Policeman,

are planted near the session. The wasps have gone,

one through an open casement, one through the door.

Somebody calls for a song. The Clare Hills

are looking good: I see them through the window

as if for the first time. It’s not today

nor yesterday they learned to play the light.

© Ciaran O'Driscoll, 2011

Note: I wrote the first draft of this poem in Feakle, Co Clare, during a Sunday morning session at the annual Traditional Music Festival, on August 7th last. The 'lead fiddler' in the poem (and in the session) was Vincent Griffin.