When Andy Sang
By Mouche
[Jim's note - this is a poem dedicated to Andy Northall,
as opposed to other Andys who have graced the OOTB stage]
I had to leave after he played
The man looked like a builder
Or Friar Tuck
Balding, bearded, jeans
And lumberjack shirt.
He’d brought his own guitar.
His name was Andy.
A newcomer, you’d said
And gingerly, he stepped on stage
And said, or mumbled
Something about singing this one
With another..
Suddenly the gruff man
Made small by the limelight,
And smaller still, though we were
Yet to find out,
By what he was about to
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This man you’d never cross
In the street, in the pub,
And he was holding his
Guitar, like a baby
And coaxing soft plucked sounds
As his voice, light & sometimes
Strained sought &
Found that place between hard wood
Steel & beating heart…
There were few of us now,
Less than sober,
Gathered in quiet awe;
Except for the blonde, who,
By leaning over Golden Ballboy
Was somehow entitled
To whisper loudly & garishly
While we, hoi polloi,
Tried to glare her into silence;
And even our gentle Shire
Cast a disturbed glance her way..
Jesus, for his last, in the
Same soft quiet tone
He announced an instrumental,
Confessed inspiration from
Winnie the Pooh,
Christopher Robin & 64 trees
(Or was it 63?),
And slightly mistuned
His guitar, that flower
Held gently in his arms,
So that he winced
Every time she complained
Affectionately at his nervous
Oversight,
And played for us such a
Lullaby as to make us all
His children,
And captivated, we were.
And so, carrying his tune
In my head, like a baby
Bird in my hand
Trembling,
I had to leave after he
Played.
Written by Mouche (1st May 2003, OOTB, The Waverley)
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