Voices Round a Star

a Christmas Meditation
by Michael Ffinch

With Music by Francis Shaw

As you listen, scroll down to read the text and to look at the pictures. Enjoy!

INTRODUCTION

MICHAEL FFINCH:

The seasons turn. The winter tires.
Autumn is gathered up and the fires still smolder on in the park.
Mothers and children get up in the dark.
And the damp, damp, damp in the dim out of doors,
Where spent leaves leave a print on the pavement.
The skulls of roses rot in the border.
May we winter with more than resentment?
The swallows have skied off south to the sunshine.
The gulls are in from the gale giddy sea.
The dormouse snoozes snug in the garden.
Where in this dull of December are we?
Each is alone, alone, unless there is more in the heart than the heart might guess.
For love let me down. My hopes lie dead.
There is one thought spinning through my sleepless head.
I’m alone, alone, alone,
Unless there is love that will light up this loneliness.

THE SEASON

THE CAST:

Christmas. Season. Carolling. Gifts.
An elbowing scuffle in the Oxford Street lifts.
Christmas.
Stable.
Nutcracker.
Suite.

Millions of turkeys are hanging from the feet.
There’s a fold of alarm in the faces we meet.
It’s go man for the rich. Oh may the rolls be mine.
I will row about my sorrow like the Serpentine.
There’s a dead sound still on the final stroke of nine.

Famine. Mistletoe. Herod-hugging. War.
Most mothers stomachs are hungry and sore.
Madcap. Fallen, Wonder-breaker. Wild.
In his mirror Adam frown as a monster self-styled.
Fear mushrooms in the eye made to be mild.
See his eyelids fasten in a gallivant of gold.
Here his quip of glory: he is grown-up and bold.

Is there hope? Is there faith ? Is there love? Salvation?
Is there a peace like a park for the tortured nations?
Is there music in the city air to meet the mask of man’s despair?
Are there gentle words to heal, to hold in joy?
Must we ever conjure with a crumbling toy?

All hopes high-balance in a baby boy.
A boy?
Boy.
A child?
Child. Child.
Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!
Christ’s Mass.
So Joy high up, despair hang down.
Christmas come to us, to London town

2. THE ANNUNCIATION

ROSALIND SHANKS:

She must have felt an inkling in the past:
Familiar winnowing of angel wings.
Alive, beside the almond leaves, a vast
Importance blesses like the words it brings.

Between the fearing and the unafraid
The tides of will are still and frozen
No latitude to shout, to run, evade
The complex of the carefully chosen.

There were no after thoughts she might forget;
No skillful metaphors through which to grope;
Its words were firm and gentle like a net.

Unchanged, she sat encompassed by their scope
And triumphed in the trap that love had set
Beyond her adoration and her hope.

There was no interchange of doubt and trust.
Resolved, she passed her father’s flocks and herds
And free, along the hill tracks fretful dust
She set to rest her silence into words.

She watched as flawless eagles swooped to feed
And prayed for her who anxious counted days;
Who like herself would let her heart stampede
Across the open languages of praise.

Beyond the grassless crags her mind engraved
A well fed city starving for a guest;
Like bees among the orange trees, there craved

The doleful murmurs of the dispossessed.
She saw. The village white with sun, she waved.
A million voices mantled her and blessed.

MICHAEL FFINCH:

Who could’ve seen in her delicate danger
The Hand beyond time surrender in light?
With Seraphim stride, one step to the manger,
A golden cave in a garden of night?

O who in his hour could tell her tomorrow?
A childhood of joy – a joy to obey! –
Could linger the smiles that settle in sorrow;
Or measure from dark, her marvelous way?

Tell her, out oh Angels! Accomplish her, Powers!
Spill like a secret has separate hours!
A girl for the blue! O Wonder of wings!

Complete to her feet our fallen devotion,
Controller of Stars! O Star of the Ocean,
The sea of the confident castaway stings!

3. THE WAY TO BETHLEHEM

TIMOTHY BATESON:

As Mary’s anxious night approaches:
the star, the open cave, the animals:
no care no friendliness no quickening fire
to free Our Mother from the world’s reproaches,
The markets heave in a feverous hurry,
snatches of kissing-green hang on the stalls;
Holly from Berkshire, Hampshire and Surrey,
creepings of ivy tagged from the walls
of tumbling stables and crumbling ledges,
from slab and stumpy, toad sleeping hedges.
Lorries converging on Covent Garden
pass through Essex as the marshes harden,
loaded with firs as the mill-ponds freeze,
from acres of Suffolk that were, last week, trees.

ELIZABETH MORGAN:

And our own preparation, the preparation of the heart
is more than a series of purchases,
the cards we have forgotten to send,
the number of bottles, the weight of the bird,
the amount of money left over to spend
on miscellaneous odds and ends.
May we deserve our massive rejoices.

JULIE HALLAM:

Too readily is our inn found jovially full:
the door well-barred, our stomachs,
loose-belted, digesting goose-guzzling rites.

STEPHEN THORNE:

Too easily our minds recall the gloomy fringes of Eve’s untempered garden, the apple-edges of exile (It is so much more matey outside); the glance back at our intended home,
our Paradise, found painful; the perimeter:
our accustomed and callous pitch,
where spirits would loathe to loiter,
seraphs, made helpless, watch us stumble.

DAVID TIMSON:

In this offending maze of highways and offices the screech
of Hell’s-owl will seem as soothing as Mozart.

JULIE HALLAM:

How each fresh Horror howls for fivers
at our decorated door!

ROSALIND SHANKS:

It is hard in a frenzy of fists
to decipher a gentler knocking,
to face the familiar shadows a carpenter’s
lamp has thrown, like laughter, on the floor,
but the ass-yard will never seem so much a stranger
as on this night so carollous, so clear, we see our fall
and know the unique star-light for our own
a tightly-swaddled Hebrew baby for our king.

SUNG BY DAVID TIMSON:

Swept were all available rooms
The bread well baked, the beds prepared
For tired men, camels and their grooms
In Bethlehem, my Lady.

Loud was the chatter, wine had cheered
The dull hearts of the merchant men.
Love-high your perfect star appeared
on Bethlehem, my Lady.

O that I had that chance again,
When Joseph banged the inn-yard gate!
Was yours a yearning moment then
For Bethlehem, my Lady.

I served you leavings from my plate;
You smiled; I led you to the cave;
You thanked me, but I didn’t wait;
To Bethlehem, my Lady!

How far the animals would crave
Their steamy breath to warm His cries:
Indifference was the gift I gave
from Bethlehem, my Lady.

Forgive my muddling, my lies,
My heart is vacant like an inn.
Save me, O Mother or I die
And Bethlehem, my Lady

4. THE MASSACRE OF THE INNOCENTS

CAST:

Stop! A halt in the traffic; the policeman waves his hand;
Forty Father Christmas’s are striding down the Strand:
Reindeer parked on meters munching nosebag meals;
Sledges fixed with heaters; sacks on trolley wheels.
Christmas for the children. Listen to the squeals!

Stop! A halt in the traffic; the policeman waves his hand;
A thousand tons of dynamite we dropped in one weekend!
!t’s such a pity Joseph, when peace is on the way
That we silenced all your babies before armistice day.
Christmas for the children. Pull the crackers. Hey!
Children. Children. Children. Children.
Herod. Herod. Herod.Herod!

Lights! Music! Guards! Move on, you slave!
Kings are here. Give all the horses hay!
This palace fast becomes a cave for light
Your highnesses will stay?
Baby? King? Bethlehem did you say?
Let us celebrate! Fill the hall
With voices. Balthazar, this way!
(Now Herod will not sleep at all.)
Caspar, I’m grateful; Melchior give
Me the chance to peep at him; pray
Before this Prince of whom you rave.
First we must feast! Bagpipes play –
Flutes, Trumpets, Oboe, Timpani.
I had a premonition of your call –
Come Barcarolle: I feel the spray!
(Now Herod will not sleep at all.)

They thanked him for the gifts he gave,
The feast so garrulous and gay
And on the path the Star would pave
They left, as planned, before the start of day –
King Herod heard them ride away
He saw the dawn wake on the wall;
The darkness desperate where he lay –
(Now Herod will not sleep at all.)
Three Kings, because I must betray;
Because a baby is so small –
Soldiers, your swords, make no delay.
Now Herod will not sleep at all.

5. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

MICHAEL FFINCH:

We are the desert waste,
the deserted frontier,
a land with no daisies,
a sky without sparrows,
through which they must flee,
where they now wander,
Mary and Joseph unwanted in exile.
We the torment of voices betraying,
betraying, betraying and sometimes praying;
already the cockerel stretches for crowing—
Too late, too late, is it not too late!

ROSALIND SHANKS:

Fly, Little-One, Herod unknowing:
Mary, Joseph, up and be going;
Sudden, Joseph, is the Seraph’s warning,
Fly before morning.
Pleading abundant as Herod’s scheming
Our voices plead beyond your dreaming;
Fly before morning.
Down into Egypt, England….

JULIE HALLAM:

Remember, remember the close of December
Half a Million may die this December;
How many more will we maim or dismember;
Even while we are calling,
our weapons are sighted for slaying,
weapons we have traded for profit!
How many have we sent this Christmas,
wrapped and ribboned in disinterested hate
‘With Greetings from England
and Father Christmas’
Too late, too late, is it not too late?

MICHAEL FFINCH:

SUNG BY ELIZABETH MORGAN:

Behind our walls where nothing hides;
Each citizen so socially secure.
With comforts that the State provides
Our City air exceptionally pure.

STEPHEN THORNE

Here in a hanger close by the river,
a home like a hanger for bombers and fighters,
where love is measured in fags and lighters,
two hundred fixed unwanted faces,
troubled, tired intelligent faces,
stare at the telly from a hundred paces.
Armchairs with the sacking hanging
crack and groan when the handbell clanging
signals that fresh tea is made
‘Stoop into line for the Love parade!’
Husbands do not join their wives,
the girls they chose to share their lives,
but once a day they meet for a chatter
about the things that used to matter,
gaze at the walls and the girders above them
and think of the children that used to love them.

MICHAEL FFINCH:

SUNG BY ELIZABETH MORGAN:

Mr Popinopulos has a barber’s shop,
He stands in the queue at a Camden bus-stop;
Every Tuesday morning he leaves his wife behind,
Takes a ticket for St. Dunstan’s, trims hair for the blind.

Mr Popinopulos tries to understand
As he leads his little daughter out by the hand;
How swans fly in winter; how tree-trunks are green
The Greek Barber’s daughter will never, ever see.

And that is why today for a Camden bus-stop
Mr Popinopulos has left his barber’s shop —
To lift up his he art to the Bethlehem Child
And give thanks that his daughter can dance, cry and smile.

6. AT THE MANGER

MICHAEL FFINCH:

How happy are you in the suburbs of weeping;
Suffer your sorrow,
Joy will come after.
Come to the cave
Where a baby is sleeping;
Kneel and observe,
You will find laughter
On Christmas Day
On Christmas Day.
Pray for us, Mary, Joseph, pray.

ROSALIND SHANKS:

The curtains are drawn
Round the accident bed;
‘He’s struggling on,’
The surgeon said.
Twelve days from his home divided,
Unconscious since his van collided;
Will his family mourn the dead
On Christmas Day
On Christmas Day?
Pray for him, Mary, Joseph, pray.

STEPHEN THORNE:

I have risen and I am with you,
Not as the World is the peace I give you.
Man whose mastery
Now forgets me,
Search the mystery
Love besets me:
High was the Joy in the Bethlehem dawn,
High in your heart let a child be born.

JULIE HALLAM:

How happy are you who count on the feeding
Others might give you,
You will be filled.
Come where the mountain-shepherds are leading:
Kneel in your pain
Where pain is stilled
By Christmas Day
By Christmas Day.
Pray for us, Marty, Joseph, pray,

ELIZABETH MORGAN:

A room with a cooker, Mattress and sink;
Her husband has left her For mistress and drink:
Walls without paper, windows to mend,
She stares at the two in the cot end to end:
Toys won’t be bought, she begins to think
By Christmas Day
By Christmas Day.
Pray for her, Mary, Joseph, Pray.

ROSALIND SHANKS:

How happy are you with no bed for your lying
You will find shelter,
Comfort and rest.
Come to the stable,
a baby is crying
Find there a table
Set for a guest.
For Christmas Day
For Christmas Day.
Pray for us, Mary, Joseph, pray.

DAVID TIMSON:

Once I had comfort, a home and a Mrs,
A crackling fire and Caroline’s kisses;
But since she has gone, now the sky I possess,
I’m John, once of Archway, with no fixed address.

I drift in dreams of purple wine
And tidal-waves of beer;
O that the treble-chance were mine
And Christmas twice a year;
That of a home I had the key
And Caroline to cook for me.

I shift from place to place by night,
I doze beneath the skies
Until the copper shines his light
Into my loaded eyes;

For those who hardly dare to feed
The stars are very deaf indeed.
I have a little prayer my end
Will calm me as I sleep; Eternal courtesy will bend
And through my chaos peep;
Where Motherlove goes on and on,
I’ll hear a gentle calling: ‘John’.

ELIZABETH MORGAN:

How happy are you in the Cell of Forgiving,
If you lack mercy
Life is a theft.
Come to the city
a Star is enliving;
Kneel in your pity
Freedom your gift
On Christmas Day
On Christmas Day
Pray for us, Mary, Joseph, pray.

TIMOTHY BATESON:

Beside faded pin-ups
In a grey prison-block
They wait with tin cups
For the doors to unlock;
The warders are merry, their manner mince-pied,
Christmas has come for the fathers inside.
Laughs tell the time though dead is the clock
On Christmas Day.
On Christmas Day.
Pray for them, Mary, Joseph, Pray.

STEPHEN THORNE:

How happy are you when sad men are scorning
Great Love is near you, Flames that subsist.
Come to the manger,
Three Kings are adorning,
Kneel in the danger
No love can resist.
Forgive us, O Lord,
Forgive us, we Pray,
Pray for us, Mary, Joseph, pray.

ROSALIND SHANKS:

December in the Barrack Room
He knelt down by his bed;
First the bucket, then the broom
Was hurled until he bled,
We’ll have no Sugar-knees in here
To dent the floor and sour the beer
A bunch of brambles on his head!
Forgive them, O Lord,
Forgive them, we pray.
Pray for them, Mary, Joseph, ptay.

JULIE HALLAM:

I have risen and I am with you….
Not as the World is the Peace I give you.
Man whose mastery
Now forgets me,
Search the mystery
Love besets me;
High was the Joy in the Bethlehem dawn,
High in your heart let a child be born.

ELIZABETH MORGAN:

How happy are you who silence the battling,
Settle in peace,
Peace will be yours.
Come to a hovel
In use now for cattling,
Hear the Nowell,
Listen and pause.
On Christmas Day
On Christmas Day.
How long must we chatter along the way?

TIMOTHY BATESON:

We are the battle waste,
the barbed-wite frontier,
a land charred of daisies,
a sky shot of sparrows,
to which they bring freedom,
where they make comfort,
Mary and Joseph needed in London.

THE CAST:

We are the anguish of voices praying,
praying, praying; and often betraying;
already the cockerel crows in the morning.
Too late, too late? It is not too late.

MICHAEL FFINCH:

Come, Little-One, shelter our fears;
Come to out avenues, crescents and squares,
Into our sky-blocks with miles of stairs –
Come before morning,
Hear our voices above the wild drumming;
We love you, Lord, we cry for your coming:
Come before morning —
Now, into England, London.

ANNOUNCER:

In Voices Round a Star by Michael Ffinch the music was composed and directed by Francis Shaw.

The voices were those of Michel Ffinch, Rosalind Shanks, Elizabeth Morgan, Timothy Bateson, Stephen Thorne, Julie Hallam and David Timson.

The songs were sung by Elizabeth Morgan and David Timson.

The flautist was Susan Milan, the guitarist was Roland Harker, the cellist was Douglas Cummings and pianist Francis Shaw.

The producer was Shaun MacLoughlin.

Join our Teachers Facebook Group

Join the group and start sharing fun experiences with other teachers around the world.

Teachers Learn ETD

Come and join to our community group page in facebook and start sharing!

Voices Round a Star

a Christmas Meditation by Michael Ffinch

With Music by Francis Shaw

As you listen, scroll down to read the text and to look at the pictures. Enjoy!

Join our Teachers Facebook Group

Join the group and start sharing fun experiences with other teachers around the world.

Teachers Learn ETD

a Christmas Meditation
by Michael Ffinch