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Ian Anderson: The Secret Language of the Birds

 A l b u m   D e t a i l s


Artist: Ian Anderson
Title: The Secret Language of the Birds
Released: 2000
Label: Roadrunner Records
Time: 53:51
Producer(s): Ian Andreson
Appears with: Jethro Tull, Man-Doki
Category: Pop/Rock
Rating: *********. (9/10)
Media type: CD
Purchase date:  2000.03.13
Price in €: 17,08
Web address: www.j-tull.com




 S o n g s ,   T r a c k s


[1] Secrete Language of Birds (Ian Anderson) - 4:18
[2] Little Flower Girl (Ian Anderson) - 3:37
[3] Montserrat (Ian Anderson) - 3:22
[4] Postcard Day (Ian Anderson) - 5:06
[5] Water Carrier (Ian Anderson) - 2:57
[6] Set-Aside (Ian Anderson) - 1:28
[7] Better Moon (Ian Anderson) - 3:47
[8] Sanctuary (Ian Anderson) - 4:41
[9] Jasmine Corridor (Ian Anderson) - 3:54
[10] Habanero Reel (Ian Anderson) - 4:02
[11] Panama Frieghter (Ian Anderson) - 3:22
[12] Secrete Language of Birds, Pt II (Ian Anderson) - 3:06
[13] Boris Dancing (Ian Anderson) - 3:07
[14] Circular Breathing (Ian Anderson) - 3:45
[15] Stormont Shuffle (Ian Anderson) - 3:11

 A r t i s t s ,   P e r s o n n e l


Ian Andreson - Vocals, Flute, Acoustic guitar, Bouzouki, Acoustic bass guitar, Mandolin, Percussion, Piccolo, Engineer

Andrwe Giddings - Accordeon, Piano, Organ, Marimba, Percussion, Electric bass, Keyboards, Orchestral sounds
Martin Barre - Electric guitar
Gerry Convay - Drums
Darren Money - Drums
James Duncan - Drums

Nick Webb - Production mastering
Bogdan Zarkowski - Design, Artwork

 C o m m e n t s ,   N o t e s


© 2000 Papillion Records and Roadrunner Records www.roadrunnerrecords.com. Limited edition enhanced CD includes interview with IA and an excellent video of the title track.



SLOB STORY

Yes, SLOB it has become (courtesy, as I recall, of a fan's e-mail shorthand rambling) and SLOB it will probably remain, at least in the parlance of the knowing Tull or IA afficianado.

The Secret Language Of Birds began as an intention to produce, in the off-time between Tull tours during 1998, an album of songs to join the collection of the many acoustic pieces which have graced earlier Tull albums from time to time.

I first plucked up the courage to sing to the simple accompaniment of the mandolin on the 'b' side, A Christmas Song, recorded without Mick Abrahams (briefly the first Tull guitarist), in late 1968. Subsequently, around the time of Aqualung (1971) In the difficult process of recording the record at the then new Island Records Studio, I resorted to the sometimes necessary expedient of the simple (sonicly speaking) performance of little acoustic punctuation pieces to complement the grizzlier and often doomy riffs which epitomised the musically more weighty numbers. These songs, in retrospect, gave the album some real depth and variety. I think that the sense of drama and differing dynamics which feature in Tull's music since that time was born at that moment. Thick As A Brick cemented the relationship which I was to enjoy with the acoustic guitar and other "silk, steel and wood" instruments, although some of my more ethnic musical interests had already begun with the much earlier Stand Up album in 1969.

So, on to the SLOB sessions: the first few pieces (Montserrat, Flower Girl, Postcard Day, Panama Freighter) were worked out as acoustic mandolin, bouzouki or guitar backing tracks with vocal lines and a few lyrics, mostly already with titles. Soon, Andrew Giddings, dropping by on a few occasions, added some subtle additions from accordion, bass, marimba and so on and the drums or percussion were finalised just before the final mixing down process many months later. The trouble with working on a record over a prolonged period of time is that the interruptions are many and it often takes some while to resume the flow and impetus for the project. However, the up-side was that there were many more song ideas to choose from and no strict schedule to achieve finished work.

Some of the later songs to be written and recorded (Set-Aside, Sanctuary, A Better Moon, Jasmine Corridor, Circular Breathing) tended to be quite personal and emotive and Andy put his additions to the almost completed work at the final stages. Other musicians were brought in along the way: Gerry Conway, Darren Mooney and James Duncan on drums; Martin Barre for a brief strum and twiddle and the un-credited last moment performance of one of Brittany's leading Gallic folk fiddlers, the illusive, indeed almost legendary, Monsieur Roland Bord-du-Quai, who added some emotional and perfect violin accompaniment to the song Sanctuary. Unfortunately Rick Sanders of the Fairports was washing Dave Pegg's hair on the day in question.

The two instrumental pieces were each derived from a preconceived title. The whimsy behind Boris Dancing needs no repeating. Good luck Yeltso!
The Stormont Shuffle, with its two-part tune representing the divisions between the nationalist and republican combatants, seems all the more appropriate at the time of writing when, almost two years later, the peace process is in disarray and the stormbringers are at each other's throats once again. Poor old David Trimble seems set to follow the decent and maligned John Major in the History lesson of how not-to-be remembered. But maybe not yet. Good luck Trimbo!

Well, I hope you like the finished work and that the legacy of early Tull lingers on through the songs on this record. It is, at least, a personal document, free from the need to accommodate the heavier aspirations and tendencies of typical Tull members (including me!) No requirement to Rock-On, Cleveland! More, Strum-On, St. Cleve (in the parish of Gwynne-Thorpe on the Mundle, and twinned with Gerhardstadt-in-Deutzkrandtz, for you Europhiles).

Must go now: I think feel a song coming on, or might that feeling merely signal the male and menopausal truth, stranger than wildest fiction, which ushers in that time of the evening when all good men must retire to their sleeping beds, better to be invigourated before the steely and unstoppable dawn? Noooo…… I probably just need to take a widdly-wee and a last look at the eveready fax machine.

Ian Aanderson
February, 2000



Das beste Ian Anderson Werk seit 'Songs From The Wood'.

Das Album ist einfach klasse! Anfangs etwas Gewöhnungsbedürftig aber danach ist jedes Lied ein Ohrwurm. Auch das Video auf der limitierten Ausgabe ist Spitze und ein muss für jeden Tull Fan.

Nach einer doch etwas längeren Durststrecke mit durchwachsenen Alben, kehrt Ian Anderson zu seiner alten Stärke zurück. Ein Album, dass als Äquivalent zum letzten Tull-Album "j-tull DOT COM" die leisen Töne bevorzugt, ist in jeder Hinsicht super gelungen. Prädikat: Sehr empfehlenswert.

Ein sehr schönes semi-akustisches Album mit gute Texte. Viele ungewöhnliche Instrumente werden benutzt und Ian's Stimme ist fabelhaft. Nicht nur Tull-fans werden sich an diesem Album freuen: jeder der akustische Folk-songs liebt und etnische Einflüsse interessant achtet soll dieses Album einfach kaufen.....

© 2000



Ian Anderson, der Flötenderwisch von Jethro Tull, kann machen was er will: Seinen unverkennbaren Singsang und die typisch trillernde Flöte hört man wohl selbst im Oropax-Test raus. Dabei schafft er es nach mehr als drei Jahrzehnten im Musikbusiness offenbar mühelos, auf seinem dritten Soloalbum (nach Walk Into The Light und dem rein instrumentalen Divinities) halbwegs im vertrauten Stilrahmen zu bleiben und dennoch immer wieder neue Varianten zu finden. Aber keine Bange: The Secret Language Of Birds fällt nur insofern ein wenig aus dem Rahmen, als der professionelle Lachszüchter nach dem jüngsten, überaus erfolgreichen Band-Album J-Tull Dot Com solo zu seinen traditionelleren folkloristischen Wurzeln zurückgeht.

Der federleichte Titelsong beispielsweise ließe sich in Spurenelementen mühelos bis zum Sixties-Klassiker "Bourée" zurückverfolgen. Was primär daran liegt, dass praktisch alle Songs das höfische Fest in einem Historienfilm prächtig untermalen könnten. Bis auf vereinzelte Keyboards, gelegentlich einen dezenten elektrischen Bass oder eine E-Gitarre ist das gesamte Instrumentenarsenal rein akustisch. Der Chef selbst zeichnet außer für Gesang und diverse Flöten für Gitarren, Mandoline oder Bouzouki verantwortlich, den Rest bestreiten die bewährten Tull-Kompagnons Andrew Giddings und Martin Barre plus drei sehr verhalten die Stöcke schwingende Drummer. Eine beschwingt tänzelnde Leichtigkeit zeichnet das gesamte Album aus, in fülliger instrumentierten Nummern wie "Panama Freighter" ebenso wie im Instrumental "Boris Dancing", das Anderson keck Boris Jelzin widmete, oder dem schlichten "Set-Aside". Perfekte Tafelmusik, ideal zum Entspannen und Träumen.

Claus Böhm, Amazon.de



What does it mean when, after having listened to The Secret Language Of Birds disc only once (and listening to other stuff after it), I start dreaming about it? Not just dreaming about my review of it, but dreaming of it. Of listening to it, and Ian Anderson is there ... and yet, I am of course, also thinking about my review of it. Of how I'm not going to quite say enough about it, or that maybe I will tell you too much, leaving nothing for you to explore. Never before have I dreamt about an album like this. Sure, I've been listening to stuff and fallen asleep (not because of the material) and find when I get in a half-awake/half-asleep state I write lushly full reviews - words I cannot remember the next morning, but for the sense of them. But here, the effect that music has stays with me, putting me in warm, comfortable, relaxed place - a place of summer colours (yellow, orange, green, lime) and summer fruit.

So anyway, I'm awake now and listening to the beautiful disk by Jethro Tull mainman Ian Anderson. Maybe it has something to do with the album cover, but the music here is coloured in citrus - lemon, lime, orange, tangerine ... Anderson's flute is light and breezy, floating through the various passages of various songs like ... well, like a bird on the wing. His is the secret language of birds - communicating just as much in a trill as in a syllable. Meaning, Anderson is at his usual poetic ways, painting vivid word pictures in both broad and fine strokes.

Along with flute, Anderson plays acoustic guitar, bouzouki, mandolin, piccolo, and percussion. Andrew Giddings (his bandmate in Tull) accompanies Anderson on accordion, piano, organ, marimba, keys, and orchestral sounds. The sound is rounded out by the following on drums: Gerry Conway (ex-Tull member), Darren Mooney, and James Duncan, plus current Tull guitarist Martin Barre.

We were treated to a sample of this album on the J-Tull Dot.com release last year. The title track is lovely and lyrical, full of warmth ... I'd say with a sweet come on from Anderson, "Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds." But this is no mere come on; it's more a declaration of love.

At first glance, "The Little Flower Girl" might come across as a little disturbing ... well, actually it made me think of "Aqualung" a bit in it's imagery. But when you read Anderson's notes at the end of the booklet, it all becomes much clearer. I'm not familiar with Sir William Russell Flint, but from what I gather from Anderson's notes, this track is his vision of the story behind the Flint watercolour (of the same name as the song's title?).

"Postcard Day" is all warm summer breezes; bright, clear skies, where the sun makes deep shadows, and shines blindingly on white, plastic outdoor furniture. "A Better Moon" sounds vaguely reminiscent of an earlier Jethro Tull piece, at least I think it's Tull ... it's quiet elusive so I'm not quite sure.

The textures used throughout are warm, owing to acoustic nature of them music and richness of Anderson's voice, and are folk in nature, if not vaguely Celtic, though with tracks like "Postcard Day" the setting is far from the dense woods or land of faery associated with Celtic music. Of course, this is also overt in "The Habanero Reel," as it moves enough to make you think of dancing, though the setting here, again, isn't the lush green of the forest, but rather some "dryer" coastal city (I'm thinking Mexico or South America somewhere).

"Boris Dancing" weaves both the Celtic feel of the rest of the album with an admixture of middle-eastern and ... well obviously what we associate with Russian music - sort of a twisting arrangement.

Well, I'm off have a cool drink, sit on my patio with this playing, and listen to the secret language of birds. But, before I go, there are two bonus tracks here (unlisted) - one is from Ian Anderson's earlier solo disk Divinities, the other is a new version of a Tull classic ... that I'll leave to you to discover.

Reviewed by: Stephanie Sollow, March 2000
www.progressiveworld.net - Your Ultimate Guide To Progressive Music



On the latest Jethro Tull album, J-tull Dot Com, we could hear a bit of the latest solo album by master magician Ian Anderson by means of a bonus track. Anderson has admitted to being influenced by both folk and Arabian rhythms and its especially that rustic, folky feeling that we find on his The Secret Language Of Birds. All of the fifteen songs can be placed under the heading of pure acoustic music, featuring a truly relaxed Anderson on flute, acoustic guitar, bouzouki, bass, mandoline and percussion. Ian is mainly accompanied by keyboard player Andrew Giddings, who, along with accordion, piano and organ, also adds marimba, percussion, electric bass and orchestral sounds to the album.

A nice example of the latter can be found during "The Little Flower Girl." Arabian influences galore in "The Water Carrier," with Martin Barre on guitar, whilst also during “A Better Moon" a similar atmosphere steps in. In fact this album comes very close to the best of Jethro Tull because, as on Aqualung, to name but one album, you can also find three or so pure acoustic songs that highlight the talent of Ian Anderson, accompanied by a sparse arrangement. Similar music can be found on Songs From The Wood; Heavy Horses also contained a lot of that folk "feel." In fact Anderson is very priviliged because he lives in a huge house in the country and every morning, when he opens the bedroom windows, he looks to the fields and listens to "the secret language of birds."

Each of the fifteen songs on this album are musical paintings like only Anderson can depict them. The lyrics are his canvas, his unique timbre is the royal palette of colours whilst the flute is the ‘stand-in’ for the much-needed brush. This album also includes a multimedia segment where we can witness a fantastic image quality and a very relaxed Ian Anderson who explains, in a minstrel kind of way, the album, followed by a sober video of the title track. A warm and beautiful album full of class!

Reviewed by: John "Bo Bo" Bollenberg
www.progressiveworld.net - Your Ultimate Guide To Progressive Music



Because he's oft-lumped with classic-rock vets from the Zeppelin era, it's easy to forget that Jethro Tull's flautist-vocalist Ian Anderson has always been a complete original. It's also tempting to think that Tull has in recent years been little more than a vehicle for Anderson's idiosyncratic whims, but his third solo outing, The Secret Language of Birds, quickly clarifies that notion. Entirely acoustic and worlds away from its two predecessors--the dated electro-pop of 1983's Walk into Light and the refined classicism of 1995's Divinities: Twelve Dances with God--Birds hearkens back to the pastoral, Renaissance-tinged music that Tull has explored less and less since Tull's second outing, 1969's Stand Up. With a nod to the folk influences of Steeleye Span (whom Anderson produced) and rife with Gaelic and Eastern European musical influences, Anderson contemplates issues from lost innocence to the Irish Problem with typically baroque grace.

Jerry McCulley, Amazon.com



Ian Anderson's bird call

Tweet, tweet, tweet ... Jethro Tull's satyr-like singer and flautist indulges himself terribly on a collection of wispy nothings filled with images of "glistening" iguanas, "flitting" illusions, "milky" light, "virgin" dawn (you get the idea) and, of course, the birds, the birds ....

Steeped in an Olde English flavour and loaded with twittering flute solos, there are some laughable moments in Anderson's gentle music. But he's dead serious, singing the most esoteric, mystical and silly sentiments in his reedy voice, undoubtedly inspired by years of wandering around in his own garden. Music for hobbits.

MIKE ROSS, Edmonton Sun



Musik für das Ohr ab 30

Eigentlich paßt der sympathische alte Flötengnom ja nicht so richtig zu dem Rest dieser Seite. Aber eigenartigerweise fanden Jethro Tull ja schon immer da ihre Nischen, wo man es beim besten Willen nicht vermutet hätte Auch im Katalog des Labels Roadrunner, das ansonsten hauptsächlich schwermetallische Klänge an die Leute bringt, dürfte Anderson eher als alter Paradiesvogel gelten. Im 32. Jahr seiner Musikerkarriere veröffentlicht Ian Anderson nach "Walk into light" (83) und "Divinities" (95) mit "The secret language of birds" sein drittes Soloalbum. Auf dem legendären Jethro Tull-Konzept-Album "Aqualung" aus dem Jahr 1971 servierte Anderson mit "Cheap bay return", "Wondring aloud" und "Slipstream" erstmals drei wunderschöne, akustische Häppchen. Mit "The secret language of birds" will Anderson jetzt wieder zurück zu diesen simplen und essentiellen Elementen der Singer-/Songwriter-Musik.

Insgesamt legt Anderson jetzt 15 teils persönlich, teils ironisch, immer aber sehr stimmungsvoll arrangierte Songs vor, die allesamt den Geist der Akustik-Stücke der frühen Jethro-Tull-Alben heraufbeschwören sollen. Im Bandgefüge von Jethro Tull sah sich Anderson ja schon immer als eine Art "Unplugged-Guy innerhalb einer Rock'n'Roll-Band". Die Songs von "The secret language of birds" hätten laut Anderson daher nicht im Kontext der Heavy Classic Rock-Band funktioniert.

Wie auch schon auf seinem letzten Solo-Album "Divinities", eiem reinen Flöten-Instrumental-Album, wird Anderson wieder von Andrew Giddings (seit etwa neun Jahren Keyboarder bei Jethro Tull) unterstützt. Auch Martin Barre (langjähriger Gitarrist bei Jethro Tull) schaute für zwei Songs mal kurz im Studio vorbei. Bis auf die Unterstützung von drei Gastdrummern werden dann auch wirklich alle Instrumente (Flöte, Akustik-Gitarre, Bouzouki, Akustik- und Elektro-Bass, Mandoline, Percussions, Piccolo-Flöte, Akkordion, Piano, Orgel, Marimba, Keyboards und Orchestral-Sounds) von Anderson und Giddings gespielt. Anhand der verwendeten Instrumente kann schon man auf den ungefähren Gesamt-Sound von "The secret language of birds" schließen. Die 15 Songs bewegen sich allesamt im klassisch-folkloristischen Unplugged-Terrain. Nur selten spielt ein Schlagzeug mal einen durchgängigen Beat. Manche Tracks muten keltisch ("The habanero reel"), manche sogar orientalisch ("The water carrier") an.

Insgesamt gesehen aber eine nette, verträumte und anregende CD, die man sich gerne mal im richtigen Moment (alleine daheim, Kerzenschein, Duftlampe mit Patschuli und eine wohltemperierte Flasche Rotwein) geben kann. Mit dieser CD sollten sich aber ausschließlich eingefleischte Fans von Jethro Tull beschäftigen. Anderen Musikliebhabern wird der Zugang wohl verwehrt bleiben. Eventuell könnten sich auch noch Anhänger der New Age-Fraktion für diese doch recht zarten und naturbelassenen Klänge begeistern. Die Kids von heute hingegen werden dieses Unplugged-Album sicherlich ziemlich unerträglich finden und verächtlich die Nase rümpfen.

Matthias Allstadt



Ich gönne es Carlos Santana ja wirklich, mal wieder ganz vorne in den Charts zu stehen, aber Ian Anderson hätte es mit Jethro Tull ja mindestens genauso verdient. Gut, das letzte Tull-Album hat es immerhin auch auf Rang 15 der Album-Charts gebracht, aber das war's dann auch schon. Nur knapp ein halbes Jahr nach „J-Tull Dot Com“ präsentiert uns der Herr der Flöentöne nun sein drittes Soloalbum. Ganz vorne in den Charts wird es vermutlich auch bloß nicht zu finden sein, aber so haben wir letztlich wieder einen Beweis mehr, daß eine Chartplatzierung die eine, Qualität aber eine ganz andere Sache ist..

Soloalben werden zwangsläufig mit den Outputs der jeweiligen Stammbands verglichen, und der Vergleich könnte nicht deutlicher ausfallen: Hätte auf dieser CD anstelle von Ian Anderson Jethro Tull draufgestanden, kein Mensch hätte sich gewundert. Gesang, Flötenspiel und Songwriting des Ausnahmekünstlers sind eben so einzigartig, da wäre jedens andere Resultat eine Riesenüberraschung - und vermutlich eine negative. Den Titelsong dieses Albums gab es ja schon auf der letzten Tull-Scheibe als Bonus-Track, und dieser eröffnet dann auch diese CD - und schon zeigt sich Ian Anderson so, wie seine Fans ihn lieben, nämlich in seinem ureigenen, unverwechselbaren Sound. Verglichen mit den regulären Tull-Alben geht es hier zwar vorwiegend akustisch zu, aber wie gesagt, auch das hätte vermutlich bei einem Band-Album niemanden erstaunt. Jedenfalls passen die Arrangements perfekt zu Anderson's filigranen Kompositionen zwischen Folk und Rock.

Tull-Fans häatten dieses Album vermutlich auch gekauft, hätte Ian Anderson das Telefonbuch von Buxtehude rückwärts gesungen. Aber das bleibt ihnen erspart - der Meister zeigt sich von seiner besten Seite, und ob nun Charts oder nicht, Tull oder Solo - Album - wen stört's, wenn die Musik ein solch hohes Niveau hat?

The third solo album of the Jethro Tull mastermind, and to be honest, if this would be an regular Jethro Tull album no one would be astonished. The record is more focussed on acustic instruments, but the songwriting, vocals and of course the playing of the flute are connected so strong with the name Jethro Tull that the acustic aspect not makes an difference. But who cares about this, if the music is on such an high level?

If you miss Jethro Tull, check out Ian Anderson's "The Secret Language of Birds." Here Anderson gets back to Tull's 'Renaissance-tinged' sound - but this time he's totally unplugged! Not only is this a visually very appealing CD (gorgeous liner notes and a tropical bird-emblazoned CD), it also highlights the multi-talents of Ian Anderson - his vocals, poetic lyrics, and his skills as a musician (here he plays the flute, guitar, bouzouki, mandolin, percussion, piccolo). Highlights include "The Secret Language of Birds," "A Better Moon," and "Montserrat."

Carissa Herold, www.emazing.com



So zäh und bemüht Jethro Tull mittlerweile musizieren, erstarrt vor der eigenen Vergangenheit, so befreit, heiter und leichtfüßig kommt uns plötzlich Ian Anderson. Das Ergebnis ist nicht nur erfreulich, es ist eine echte Sensation. Frei von Bluesrock, frei von den zentnerschweren Riffs, mit denen die Melodien bei Jethro Tull allzuoft plattgewalzt werden, entfalten sich hier vergnügte Harmonien, komplex arrangiert und mit Mut zum arabesken Schnörkel.

ME/Sounds 4/00



Because he's oft-lumped with classic-rock vets from the Zeppelin era, it's easy to forget that Jethro Tull's flautist-vocalist Ian Anderson has always been a complete original. It's also tempting to think that Tull has in recent years been little more than a vehicle for Anderson's idiosyncratic whims, but his third solo outing, The Secret Language of Birds, quickly clarifies that notion. Entirely acoustic and worlds away from its two predecessors--the dated electro-pop of 1983's Walk into Light and the refined classicism of 1995's Divinities: Twelve Dances with God--Birds hearkens back to the pastoral, Renaissance-tinged music that Tull has explored less and less since Tull's second outing, 1969's Stand Up. With a nod to the folk influences of Steeleye Span (whom Anderson produced) and rife with Gaelic and Eastern European musical influences, Anderson contemplates issues from lost innocence to the Irish Problem with typically baroque grace.

Jerry McCulley, Amazon.com
 

 L y r i c s


The Secret Language Of Birds

This sparkling wine is all but empty.
Too late for trains and no taxis.
I know the feeling. Seems all too contrived.
There was no master plan but the fact is:
you must stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
A tentative dawn about to be breaking
on a Rousseau garden with monkeys in hiding.
The truth of the matter, yet to be spoken
in words on which everything, everything's riding.
Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.

Circled by swallows
in a world for the weary.
Courted by warblers; wicked and eloquent trilling.

Lie in the stillness, window cracked open.
Extended moments, hours for the taking.
Careless hair on the pillow, a bold brushstroke.
Painted verse with a chorus in waiting.
Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.


The Little Flower Girl

Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly lip.
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night.
It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.

I have touched that face a dozen times before. And I have let my pencil run.
Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun.
My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.

I close the door. She is no more until the next appointed hour.
Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream----
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.

Down at the church my flower girl sits. Legs innocent, apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I mean no harm. I mean…………….


Montserrat

Fires on the mountain, and the dogs bark.
Crash of the ocean swelling: crickets in the dark.
The temperature is rising. The village gets no sleep.
It's hardly surprising, given the hot company they keep.
Somebody's home in the ash-fall margins;
Somebody's life in the lost and found.
Breaking news from the hotel Vue Pointe.
Sinking feeling, sink another beer down.

Hey, Jimmy. What you doing here?
Looking up at the high cloud cover, so far and yet so near.
Flying in with the chopper. Lieutenant of the crown.
Tell the boys from that CNN, the good cops have come to town.

Angry island, no-one's listening. Shamrock villa, green to grey.
Down in the swamp, iguanas glistening.
Toast tomorrow, if not, today.

Hey, Jimmy. What you doing here?
You a scientist? You a newsman? Or simply come to feel the fear?
The temperature is rising. And we're in too deep.
There really is no point in disguising the hot company we keep.


Postcard Day

My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire:
pale hand gripping my pen.
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions,
letting nine become ten.
Two pink doves strut the shingles
picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved
for you dear. And I wish you were here
on this postcard day.
Focus on the fine indeterminate line
where the sky meets the sea.
Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd
freely flow out of me.
Well, I may be a hostage to summer
but I'm a hostage, not a slave.
And I'm clear that I wish you were here
on this postcard day.

Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide
swim madly with spice from the orient
on a mystery watery carpet ride.
But with the sun going down, the wind goes around;
blows them back out of mind.

My eyes are white circles staring down past the point
of my restless pen.
While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth
call my name again.
Two brown legs don't make a summer.
But two brown arms couldn't keep me away.
Well, my dear, I wish you were here
on this postcard day.


The Water Carrier

Crystal fountain springing from the hill.
It irrigates your soul. You may drink your fill.
Water of life, carried high.
One hand upon the gallon jar. Feel her fix my eye.
Every good traveller's for the taking.
All good money for the making.
Seller's market: wet appeal.
Water carrier------let's make the deal.

Covered face and black pool eyes.
Between us, no words spoken: no words to the wise.
Here's to another time and a drink somewhere.
Plush on a Nain carpet; on a café chair.


Set-Aside

Hard black crows bobbing where once ran deep furrows.
Frazzled oak silhouetted in her ivy dress.
Winter sun catches dog fox through thin hedges:
throws his long shadow north to the emptiness.
Farmhouse in tatters; shuttered and battered.
Even lovers don't go there these last few years.
Spider-web windows on set-aside heroes
standing lost in a landscape of tears.


A Better Moon

I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue.
Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp
down to the river.
Tonight flies a better moon.
Sad water buffalo lie fast near the shallows;
a splash revealing the fly-catching fishes.
Dark Gods silently watching.
Tonight flies a better moon.

I guess you've known lovers here, compliant in passion;
softly laid in the old reed bed, harshly
lit in the noon sun.
Tonight flies a better moon.

Now cloaked in this milky light, new as the virgin dawn,
shrouded sweetly in all kinds of mystery,
you turn, smile and then are gone.
Tonight flies a better moon.


Sanctuary

Dear uncle sold her into the purest kind of slavery.
Hood-eyed little middlemen profited from damaged goods
along the way.
Good angels brought her back to a last Nepal summer.
Debased, hollow-faced, a smile might become her.
Now she's cosied up, cosied up and comforted
in the warm flush of September.
Gone before winter.
Wondering as to might-have-beens.
Somebody's daughter in sanctuary, waiting.
Seen through softer cage of kindness, far and further still away,
from time-warp Victorian zoos
where staring ice cream gameboys play.
Big paws, worn claws and swishing tails.
More damaged goods in the market sales.
Too proud for anger, too late for hate: resigned in dignity.
Gone before winter.
Purring might-have-beens.
Somebody's kitten in sanctuary, waiting.

Somebody near you in sanctuary, waiting.


The Jasmine Corridor

In all my lives, I never knew anyone like you before.
Woke up one day, swore I heard the sound of heaven knocking on my door.
And after all these years long passing,
time to reflect, no time for wasting.
Walking down the jasmine corridor.
Reflecting echoes of quiet laughter.

In all my life, I was never better served than I was served by you.
And in my way, hope you agree I tried to serve you too.
Out on the headland I stepped once unsteady.
You there to catch me , I breathe more freely.
Hand in mine down the jasmine corridor.

Through all my life, I chased flitting illusions at a faster pace.
Never stopped to think: the moment was for seizing, had myself to face.
You made my bed to lie in, stately.
Mad cats, grandchildren, here more often lately.
The final view from the jasmine corridor.


The Habanero Reel

Cool in the corner, tom cat sitting
on the edge of the yard; sand-flies flitting.
Orange order on a field of green.
Smothers me to smithereens.
Rum and cola, ice cubes crashing.
Jumping beans and brown eyes flashing.
Long hair swinging, tell me how d'you feel?
Well, hot and fancy, it's the habanero reel.
Troubled skin? Pour oil upon it.
She's fit to burn in her new Scotch Bonnet.
Spice up anybody's stew.
Frogs and goats and chickens too.

Barefoot in the sunshine.
Kicking empty beer cans down on the high tide line.
Big wave nearly float your dress away.
And I'm thinking that it's just another day:
just another day.

Feel that hot rush start its tickle.
Sweat is rising, taste buds prickle
with ears of bat and eye of eagle.
It's just as well it's strictly legal.


Panama Freighter

Night close in on a shanty town.
Panama freighter wearing rusty brown.
She sails tomorrow and she's homeward bound.
Head up on a lumpy sea.

I'm not the only lonely planet rider
in this one horse town, I'm thinking.
And I won't over-rate or patronize you.

I know we're as different as chalk and cheese;
as black hole winters and salad days
and I wouldn't like your mother much anyway.
But it's not her I'm taking home with me.

Don't intend to dress you in silver threads
like some trophy in sublime seclusion.
Won't try to educate or civilize you.

Night close in on a shanty town.
Panama freighter wearing rusty brown.
She sails tomorrow and she's homeward bound
and you're bound to come home with me.
On the Panama freighter with me.


The Secret Language Of Birds, Pt. II

No buzz words, fuzzy fudge words,
so freeze those goalposts, don't take the Admiral on board.
This Hardy's not for kissing…
Expression, no explosion,
or whispered promises in cliché or in rhyme.
Instead let's talk the secret language of birds.

Right time but the wrong idea.
Well, you're making it all sound just the same.
Try taking it up a key like that Nightingale
still over there in Berkeley Square.

Do we have problems of communication?
There's something I don't know and you can't explain it to me.
Let's talk the secret language of birds.

Step out of the circus now.
Learn a new trick and make it stick.
Try taking it up a key like that Nightingale
still over there in Berkeley Square.

Finger tracing on misty window:
I'm reading loud and clear this salacious semaphore,
as you leave me standing at the station.
Give it to me ---- the big dawn chorus:
no whispered promises in cliché or in rhyme.
Let's talk the secret language of birds.

Right time but the wrong idea.
Well, you're making it all sound just the same.
Try taking it up a key like that Nightingale
still over there in Berkeley Square.


Boris Dancing

(Instrumental)


Circular Breathing

Pick up my wings and fly
into a Constable sky.
Look down on the world and try
to make you out on the distant ground.
Lonely toy in a lost toy-town.
Suspended in spiral sounds---
Sounds of circular breathing.

I'm a kite on a silver thread.
Daring lightning to strike me dead.
Harsh echoes of things you said
banished me to a thinner space
with unholy ghosts of your bedroom face.
Hands cupped to my ears to place
the sound of circular breathing.

Matchbox cityscape below----
I watch Lowry matchstick figures go.
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence.


The Stormont Shuffle

(Instrumental)

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