Oh, My Dear Octaviaby Toe-walkerChaptersThe festivalOver the hilltopsInto townPracticeSuccessCodaWritingThe lives of wavesThe grove of solaceThe festivalAutumn Day, come along, Drew an imposing throng, Big as they come. Left and right stands the mass, Centred, the upper class. Words make a hum. Early acts entertained Fairly. The crowd remained Hungry for more. Now, at long last, your turn Comes, and their gazes burn Down to your core. Taking a seat, you bring, Timidly, bow to string, Then you begin. Try to be unaware That a collective stare Claws at your skin. Quickly, your piece grows loud And you forget the crowd, Stern as a drill. You are too focussed now Even to notice how Practice meets thrill. Something unique holds sway Which, with each note you play, Goes and arrives. There, in its midst, stand you, Blissfully living through Dozens of lives. Clear, your full essence rings With, for all other things, Nary a care. Into one demiurge Nature and labour merge Flesh, wood and air. Forth bursts a final bout. Softly, it peters out. Silence ensues. Stiffly, you look around. Did you, on whims unsound, Gamble and lose? Then all those viewers who Looked to be prying you, Searching for flaws, Probing and sundering, Burst into thundering Clouds of applause. Over the hilltopsUp the hills winds the way Flanked by tall stalks that sway, Stinging to make you stay And, at the top, there play Light golden rays. Gallop, Octavia, smoothly as lace. Breath moves reluctantly, Dryly and lifelessly, Coldly and whistlingly, Yet to stop now would be Too great a risk. Gallop, Octavia, weightless and brisk. Up and away you fly, Feeling like pegasi Surely must feel to ply Miles of cloudless sky, Awed by its length. Gallop, Octavia, drawn by your strength. Then, as you slow your pace, Clearing the top with grace, There lies that lustrous place, Wiping your furrowed face Clean of its frown. Hurry, Octavia, home to your town. Into townHere you are, home at last. Stories from seasons past Hang in the eaves. Listening, carry on, Noisily tread upon Colourful leaves. Neighbourly nods bequeath Happiness underneath Hanging festoons. Chilly winds wax and wane, Catching your chestnut mane, Whistling their tunes. Everywhere, chatter stirs, But a grand matter spurs You to press on. Talk of what lies ahead Flies through your charging head. Then you are gone. There it is, finally. Sharply sprint, cravingly, To your abode, Tidy and picturesque. Skip to your writing-desk. Free what you stowed. PracticeSleep and then fetch your bow, Practice, beginning slow. Soon you gain speed. Musical through and through, Though your limbs grumble, you Pay them no heed. Melodies resonate, Fragments reverberate, Graceful and loud, For, by the music kissed, You are a celloist, Skilful and proud. Later by just two days, Autumn Day will take place. All will be there. And on this holiday, You have been booked to play Out in the square. Now you intend to play That which you wrote to-day, Making it shine. As the big date draws close, Training without repose Files it fine. Royals will be there, and, Gathered from all the land, Faces with clout. Swiftly, the day is here. Ought you to hope or fear? Go and find out. SuccessMore comes to you, who had. You receive, stunned and glad, All that you sought. Royals are also awed. All of the guests applaud What you have wrought. You begin growing rich, Being a wellspring which Gives and regales, Guarding what you have gained, Seeing your rise sustained Through your travails. You obtain wealth and weal And, at long last, you feel Fame and renown, Glamour and dizziness, Sennights of busyness Spent out of town. Many things come your way, Many a popinjay, Experts and freaks. Journalists read your lips, Adjunct professorships Fill up your weeks. Though not a thing comes free, Smiling, you knowingly Do not repent. When after day comes night, You will feel more than right, Sleeping content. CodaThough you could glean no clues, Suddenly comes the news, Shaking your world. Memories ring in you. Feel a great spring in you Gently uncurled. Dazedly stand and walk, Catching excited talk. Steady your knees. "...Put up a hardy fight...". "...Half made it out all right...". "...Back in one piece...". Wind whistles breezily, Dances and easily Sings in the trees. Feel your eyes sweetly burn, See your best friend return From overseas. WritingYesterday's dull ideas And ones from bygone years Flung to the side, Spend you the next few days Scribbling. Your face displays Effort and pride. After the first night falls, Sleep where your body sprawls, Mouth in a grin. First, through sheer force of will, Shut the door open still Since you stormed in. Just as the morrow dawns, Seeking to rush your yawns, Start you again. Then, fourteen hours away, Hours that pass like play, Lay down your pen. Next, the third day begins. All but your writing thins Into a haze. Idle are both your ears. All that your mind still hears Plays in your gaze. When the third night descends, Waking days near their ends, Still you press on. "Something superb is nigh", Sense you, your spirits high, Worries long gone. Now that you wrote all night, Toiling by candlelight, Out comes the sun. After a beat or two, Slowly, it dawns on you It is all done. Perfect notes, perfect modes, Show what the piece encodes, Nimbly conveyed. Sonorous harmonies Make it a masterpiece Ripe to be played. The lives of wavesFrothing seas Churn below. Memories Fade, so slow. Oh, my dear Octavia, Over and done. Passing waves Leave a splash, Rear their manes, Proudly crash. Oh, my dear Octavia, Over and done. Seasons change, Currents shift; Life is a Ceaseless drift. Oh, my dear Octavia, Over and done. Turn your two Baleful eyes, Raise them to Sunlit skies - Much, my dear Octavia, Yet to be done. Author's Note This was inspired by "O du lieber Augustin" ("O you dear Augustin"). It can be sung to the same tune. The grove of solaceTurn around, swiftly go, Leaving the waves below Where the dark gusts still blow In the old cove. Look, my dear Octavia, there is the grove. Bumblebees, unaware, Full and yet free of care, Buzz through the meadow, where Swallow-swarms rove. Stride, my dear Octavia, into the grove. Relish forgetfulness, Shedding regretfulness, Hearing the breeze caress Boughs up above. Pause, my dear Octavia, savour this grove. Spots of shade form a fray, Dance in a neat array, Stage an unfolding play Providence wove. Study, Octavia, life in this grove. Birdsongs ring to and fro, Playing, in afterglow, All that to write you so Skilfully strove. Dance, my dear Octavia, dance through this grove. Clear as in youth, you see You can relentlessly Recombine endlessly Themes from your trove. Rush, my dear Octavia, forth from this grove.
The festivalAutumn Day, come along, Drew an imposing throng, Big as they come. Left and right stands the mass, Centred, the upper class. Words make a hum. Early acts entertained Fairly. The crowd remained Hungry for more. Now, at long last, your turn Comes, and their gazes burn Down to your core. Taking a seat, you bring, Timidly, bow to string, Then you begin. Try to be unaware That a collective stare Claws at your skin. Quickly, your piece grows loud And you forget the crowd, Stern as a drill. You are too focussed now Even to notice how Practice meets thrill. Something unique holds sway Which, with each note you play, Goes and arrives. There, in its midst, stand you, Blissfully living through Dozens of lives. Clear, your full essence rings With, for all other things, Nary a care. Into one demiurge Nature and labour merge Flesh, wood and air. Forth bursts a final bout. Softly, it peters out. Silence ensues. Stiffly, you look around. Did you, on whims unsound, Gamble and lose? Then all those viewers who Looked to be prying you, Searching for flaws, Probing and sundering, Burst into thundering Clouds of applause.
Over the hilltopsUp the hills winds the way Flanked by tall stalks that sway, Stinging to make you stay And, at the top, there play Light golden rays. Gallop, Octavia, smoothly as lace. Breath moves reluctantly, Dryly and lifelessly, Coldly and whistlingly, Yet to stop now would be Too great a risk. Gallop, Octavia, weightless and brisk. Up and away you fly, Feeling like pegasi Surely must feel to ply Miles of cloudless sky, Awed by its length. Gallop, Octavia, drawn by your strength. Then, as you slow your pace, Clearing the top with grace, There lies that lustrous place, Wiping your furrowed face Clean of its frown. Hurry, Octavia, home to your town.
Into townHere you are, home at last. Stories from seasons past Hang in the eaves. Listening, carry on, Noisily tread upon Colourful leaves. Neighbourly nods bequeath Happiness underneath Hanging festoons. Chilly winds wax and wane, Catching your chestnut mane, Whistling their tunes. Everywhere, chatter stirs, But a grand matter spurs You to press on. Talk of what lies ahead Flies through your charging head. Then you are gone. There it is, finally. Sharply sprint, cravingly, To your abode, Tidy and picturesque. Skip to your writing-desk. Free what you stowed.
PracticeSleep and then fetch your bow, Practice, beginning slow. Soon you gain speed. Musical through and through, Though your limbs grumble, you Pay them no heed. Melodies resonate, Fragments reverberate, Graceful and loud, For, by the music kissed, You are a celloist, Skilful and proud. Later by just two days, Autumn Day will take place. All will be there. And on this holiday, You have been booked to play Out in the square. Now you intend to play That which you wrote to-day, Making it shine. As the big date draws close, Training without repose Files it fine. Royals will be there, and, Gathered from all the land, Faces with clout. Swiftly, the day is here. Ought you to hope or fear? Go and find out.
SuccessMore comes to you, who had. You receive, stunned and glad, All that you sought. Royals are also awed. All of the guests applaud What you have wrought. You begin growing rich, Being a wellspring which Gives and regales, Guarding what you have gained, Seeing your rise sustained Through your travails. You obtain wealth and weal And, at long last, you feel Fame and renown, Glamour and dizziness, Sennights of busyness Spent out of town. Many things come your way, Many a popinjay, Experts and freaks. Journalists read your lips, Adjunct professorships Fill up your weeks. Though not a thing comes free, Smiling, you knowingly Do not repent. When after day comes night, You will feel more than right, Sleeping content.
CodaThough you could glean no clues, Suddenly comes the news, Shaking your world. Memories ring in you. Feel a great spring in you Gently uncurled. Dazedly stand and walk, Catching excited talk. Steady your knees. "...Put up a hardy fight...". "...Half made it out all right...". "...Back in one piece...". Wind whistles breezily, Dances and easily Sings in the trees. Feel your eyes sweetly burn, See your best friend return From overseas.
WritingYesterday's dull ideas And ones from bygone years Flung to the side, Spend you the next few days Scribbling. Your face displays Effort and pride. After the first night falls, Sleep where your body sprawls, Mouth in a grin. First, through sheer force of will, Shut the door open still Since you stormed in. Just as the morrow dawns, Seeking to rush your yawns, Start you again. Then, fourteen hours away, Hours that pass like play, Lay down your pen. Next, the third day begins. All but your writing thins Into a haze. Idle are both your ears. All that your mind still hears Plays in your gaze. When the third night descends, Waking days near their ends, Still you press on. "Something superb is nigh", Sense you, your spirits high, Worries long gone. Now that you wrote all night, Toiling by candlelight, Out comes the sun. After a beat or two, Slowly, it dawns on you It is all done. Perfect notes, perfect modes, Show what the piece encodes, Nimbly conveyed. Sonorous harmonies Make it a masterpiece Ripe to be played.
The lives of wavesFrothing seas Churn below. Memories Fade, so slow. Oh, my dear Octavia, Over and done. Passing waves Leave a splash, Rear their manes, Proudly crash. Oh, my dear Octavia, Over and done. Seasons change, Currents shift; Life is a Ceaseless drift. Oh, my dear Octavia, Over and done. Turn your two Baleful eyes, Raise them to Sunlit skies - Much, my dear Octavia, Yet to be done. Author's Note This was inspired by "O du lieber Augustin" ("O you dear Augustin"). It can be sung to the same tune.
The grove of solaceTurn around, swiftly go, Leaving the waves below Where the dark gusts still blow In the old cove. Look, my dear Octavia, there is the grove. Bumblebees, unaware, Full and yet free of care, Buzz through the meadow, where Swallow-swarms rove. Stride, my dear Octavia, into the grove. Relish forgetfulness, Shedding regretfulness, Hearing the breeze caress Boughs up above. Pause, my dear Octavia, savour this grove. Spots of shade form a fray, Dance in a neat array, Stage an unfolding play Providence wove. Study, Octavia, life in this grove. Birdsongs ring to and fro, Playing, in afterglow, All that to write you so Skilfully strove. Dance, my dear Octavia, dance through this grove. Clear as in youth, you see You can relentlessly Recombine endlessly Themes from your trove. Rush, my dear Octavia, forth from this grove.
