Myra Schneider
The Composition Hut
Myra Schneider reading The Composition Hut 
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Fairytale: the fierce slope of the roof, the pines,
the lake, so it’s easy to fold up this century,
its quick screens, its cables packed under streets.
Now is this green and blue silence, the hut
at the foot of the hill where Grieg worked.
I can almost see his newly-hatched shoals
of crochets and quavers. So why am I holding back?
The door’s unlocked – once inside wouldn’t my ideas
flow. No, I’d be beguiled by the spears of light
rising from the silkgrey water, by the voice urging
the rowers in that boat and I’d float to yesterday
when I saw a lifetime of waterfalls, mountains clad
with firs all pointing at ever. Lulled, I’d believe
the future safe, let littlefish words evade my fingers…
Months on, the composition hut is still in my head.
It’s a hermitage where I could uncover layers of self
but does self have any meaning on its own?
I have no answer, only know I need the pines,
the lake of serenity, the idea of the hut as a retreat
or a perching place, at least, for my soul
where I can begin to face the discomposure
of composing and, undistracted, follow the thoughts
slippery as eels travelling beneath the surface,
let them lead me to the disruption and pain
beyond the trees. For when I shut off the outer tick
I find myself listening to the quickening beat
of this dear planet as if it were my own heart’s clock.
the lake, so it’s easy to fold up this century,
its quick screens, its cables packed under streets.
Now is this green and blue silence, the hut
at the foot of the hill where Grieg worked.
I can almost see his newly-hatched shoals
of crochets and quavers. So why am I holding back?
The door’s unlocked – once inside wouldn’t my ideas
flow. No, I’d be beguiled by the spears of light
rising from the silkgrey water, by the voice urging
the rowers in that boat and I’d float to yesterday
when I saw a lifetime of waterfalls, mountains clad
with firs all pointing at ever. Lulled, I’d believe
the future safe, let littlefish words evade my fingers…
Months on, the composition hut is still in my head.
It’s a hermitage where I could uncover layers of self
but does self have any meaning on its own?
I have no answer, only know I need the pines,
the lake of serenity, the idea of the hut as a retreat
or a perching place, at least, for my soul
where I can begin to face the discomposure
of composing and, undistracted, follow the thoughts
slippery as eels travelling beneath the surface,
let them lead me to the disruption and pain
beyond the trees. For when I shut off the outer tick
I find myself listening to the quickening beat
of this dear planet as if it were my own heart’s clock.
Grieg’s Composition Hut at Troldhaugen
Poems for this issue were selected by Penelope Shuttle
Page(s) 62
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