music

OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS: DIANA SANDERS – POET & MUSICIAN

By David SelzerJune 12, 20250 Comments6 min read285 views

David shows so much generosity in sharing other people’s work on his website. It’s an honour to join this community and be included in ‘Other People’s Flowers’. In this age of the individual, this is a breath of fresh air. The themes of my recent poems are aligned with this way of thinking – how the self is intrinsically connected to other people, the creatures who live on this planet and the landscape in general. The moods and colours of the landscape are reflected in me and sometimes I wonder if the colour of a dress I may be wearing finds its way into the landscape.

I live on a hill overlooking the Alwen valley with my husband Pete. The music of the land is all around – the streams, waterfalls, the river, the sound of trees in the wind. Bird song is never far away, even in winter and the donkeys from the farm opposite are unrestrained in their braying. Chaffinches, goldfinches, siskins, blue tits, nuthatches, greater spotted woodpeckers, robins turn up at our door for breakfast, lunch, dinner and tea. I think they eat better than we do. As well as the song birds there are the more subtle sounds of bats chattering in the roof, leaves unfurling, the sound of bees and hover flies.

The love I feel for this wild place, on this earth, is unconditional. The kind of love you feel for a partner, a parent or a child. It is precious. When we harm the earth, we harm ourselves. It is self-harm. I quote Just by Radiohead (1995). ‘You do it to yourself, you do and that’s what really hurts, is that you do it to yourself, just you. You and no one else’.

The poems and music that I have included here are words that comment on how humans are harming this world but also how people are finding innovative ways to heal landscapes. There is also a celebration of the beauty of this incredible world. All the poems and the song are also on a specially created video – which is available on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/100063451100133/videos/4070467436574443

My first poem, 235 decibels is from ‘I Am Nature’, a recently released book of eco poetry written by Leaf Pettit, me, Patricia Sumner and Andrew Sumner. This is available from https://www.veneficiapublications.com/product-page/i-am-nature 235 decibels was first published, though, by Abergavenny Small Press in June 2021 and looks at how submarine sonar effects the creatures in the ocean.

235 decibels*

hard to remember how it was
when they improvised and tossed
a tune for days on end
when small one set his voice free
when they all played catch bubbles O
O

O
O

when a chorus of bass notes
overtones tail-slaps clicks rumbles
filled the sea
when wind sang the lighthouse

there was a time when they could answer
songs from beyond the krill place
a time when their voices
were loudest

but now dark ones ____________________
won’t stop ___________________screaming
and lurk ___________________in the deep places
stealing music and sleep _________________________

sometimes muscles _______________remember old patterns_________________
but they ______________can no longer tell _____________what they sing

moon still licks it tongue ________________over their backs
but there is no meaning in this water_________________

* A Submarine sonar is 235 decibels. The loudest rock concert is 130 decibels.

The following lyrics were written for a song called The Seal recorded by The Amazing Clouds in 2019. The Amazing Clouds were Pete Regan, me, and Dom Oakes. It was written after visiting Ramsey Island just off the coast of Pembrokeshire. It was Autumn and the seals and their pups were in full voice.

Seal

I sit on polished rock
and listen to the seals.
Their song coils into my mind.
I dive into water.
I swim with the cormorant.
I swim with the gannet.
Bubbles are jewels on my skin.
I am born for water.
I am a shape-shifter.
The setting sun blinds me,
I’m lost on the stormy sea.
Seal pushes me to shore,
it’s there I leave my human skin.
I am born for water,
I am a shape-shifter.

I am continuing the theme of water with The man who called back the fishes. This poem is also from I am Nature and is based on the work of Dr Tim Lamont and Dr Stephen Simon who are trying to regenerate coral reefs by planting new corals and then playing sounds of a healthy reef through underwater sound projectors. This process has been found to encourage sea creatures back to the reef.

The man who called back the fishes

He began at dawn, playing reef music
whilst planting coral polyps in rock
cervices under the rippled, sunlit surface.

He purred for shoals of angel fish,
grunted for male frill fin gobies —
played the güiro for the spiny lobster.

The volume rose in a steady crescendo
through the day until it peaked at dusk.
In his dreams he painted outlines of eels,

filled in the colours of damsel fish
and the others who lived here before
the cyclones, before the bleaching.

The music rode ocean currents,
skirted islands, entered caves,
followed rafts of driftwood.

Ray by ray, fish by fish, urchins,
triggerfish, shrimp, parrotfish,
whitetip sharks, reef octopus,

manta ray, barracuda, trumpetfish,
yellowtail snappers, glassy sweepers
and starfish came back for his music.

They joined in with an eruption
of pops, howls, chirps and grunts,
whistles, snaps, bumps,

buzzes, squeals, heart beats,
teeth-gnashing, tail-slapping,
gill-flapping and staccato clicks.

He floated in this new oasis,
turned off the music
and listened.

The next poem, Blossom Symphony is about the natural music in an orchard and how the cycles of the seasons spiral into the future. I’ve used the pantoum form to enhance the feeling of repetition.

Blossom Symphony

Blossoms unfurl —
a single phrase repeated
over and over —
orchards heartbeat.

A single phrase repeated,
embellished by bumble bees —
orchards heart beat —
leaf veins breathe.

Embellished by bumble bees
and nightjar churr —
leaf veins breathe —
voles chomp on June-drop litter.

Nightjars churr —
counter melodies from wasps.
voles chomp on June-drop litter —
hawk-moths purr.

There are counter melody from wasps
and woodpecker drumrolls,
whilst hawk-moths purr
along with mineral-water arpeggios.

Woodpecker drumrolls
whilst sky rests in roots.
Mineral-water arpeggios
swell embryo fruits.

Sky rests in roots
liquid sun rushes through branches —
swells embryo fruits.
Under trees they clink glasses.

Liquid sun gushes through branches
they listen to the bubble fizz
under trees they clink glasses —
share a cider kiss.

They listen to the bubble fizz
over and over —
share a cider kiss
as blossoms unfurl.

My next poem was written in the North of Sweden just after midsummer. There is nothing quite like walking up a mountain with no one else there, reaching the peak at midnight and it still being light.

Midnight Circle

Sleep is vacuum packed as we walk
above sun-lit clouds into midnight.
You haven’t shaved for five days;
your face as raw and uncomplicated
as glacial scoured rock.

Our shadows                     stretch out
behind us                          touching
the lemming                      that sped
between                            birch trees,
the golden plover              who stood sentinel
over her chicks                  and tracing our boots
as we trod softly                on elk and Sami trails
and finding you                 watching me
swim naked                       in a mountain stream.

Our shadows pause           trembling
on the glittering river         where I found
a rounded stone                which I roll

like a precious egg in my hands.

Lastly, I return to the Pembrokeshire Coast with a poem about the Smalls Lighthouse which is about 20 miles West of the Pembrokeshire coast in the Irish Sea. It is a wild and remote place. It is hard to imagine how the lighthouse keepers kept their sanity on these windswept and lonely rocks. This also appears in I am Nature.

https://www.veneficiapublications.com/product-page/i-am-nature

Guardian

The Smalls Lighthouse

Gannets skim the boat
borrowing updrafts.

He watches until birds disappear
until the boat is a dot

until engine noise is lost

under the voice of waves
under the creak of barnacles.

He works alone

repairing horn and light
until sunset.

Stretched out on rock –
hair thick with sea salt

he listens to night spirits –

to ones who worked the light before
to the wreck-chatter of the deep.