Frank Corcoran

irish composer


In einer eMail vom 02.11.2006 11:14:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

We jerky little kids swung our then little limbs over that then little style ( – Donnelly´s sawn-off instrument had successfully shot my priestly vocation to tatters. ), that escape-path from our ´Aras Mór leading to a hole-in-the-wall, our walk or you push de flat bipeds toward angelic Sister Augustine and walk tall Sister Senan and their mountainy Hidden Object of Tabernacular Adoratio, wasn´t it Big Mister ´Eamonn Mór Dé .

I am past ” forgiving ” ? – No, dope, my PIANO TRIO of your 1977 was our Cúchullanistik. No, years later I did have to FEEL that ASSYMETRIC grey – plus – Brahms piano-interior .Yes, forgive Hugh Donnelly´s shotgun´s sawn-off sound ? Yes, forgive my tattered vocation? Forgive also, up at our styles, a child´s thrust towards fulfilling the hero´s crazy project? Forgive the Tabernacle and all who can´t forgive themselves? We were jerky, all so little, help us in out of the forlorn cold . It was dire. Not a piano-trio as yet in my childish imagination, it was the sound of sawn-off thunder. How could they let us loose beyond the limits of the style in the wall ? I know my little limbs were blue with cold, how about yours in cold Áras Mór ? Smell the explosion , hark to our thousand awakened rooks yelling blue murder under a leaden night-sky ; I was no match for the Cúchullans above at the square where never a drop of Vesevo White soccoured our parents ; no glass and a half ´d stop blue child-abuse, though Áras Mór featured lead-pipes and lead roof-lining, had included once Thomas Mann´s red wines ( after all, his own Lübecker Rotspon evening-glass did look the other way as his childer turned all blue ).

I hardly knew my young body´s lower half in our ´Aras Mór cold mansion of a Saturday Night Is Bath-Night. Nor did ever actually see the white wine” Vesevo”, our Celto-Hanseatic snobs´ ” Sannio Falanghina” . Nor could my Setanta´s hurley-stick ever hope to open a Thomas Mann bottle of ” Vin Pays d´Oc” ( – apparently it used to arrive as his own red ” Rotspon von Lübeck” , imagine! ) . But could I shriek for us five children at the style, for our rooks and our parents´ ” Heal Yerselves, Mites, Ye´ll Have To ” throughout that long October forbidden night of the shotgun? Could I?

Ask not now from which Lübeck wine-cask Immanuel Kant smelled our twisted wood . Even I still smell my very own private child-abuse, our milking, his honey. Indeed, his milking of my honey. Not a bottle of Tipperary Red Rotsporn was found aboard the rubber raft for the five orphans. Sing, Thomas Mann´s desolate, blue-white children, my old favourite, how well we know that Lied “HOW SWEETLY WE SHIVER NOW” . What bliss at whose cool pianoforte for blue-cold little, precious witnesses ? Want little, waste little. Whinge little, for ye shall not be heard.

Posted under: Humble Hamburg Musings

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