Winter Solstice Cadenza Challenge 2024

Thank you to the following people for their wonderful submissions and for entering into the spirit of the

Winter Solstice Cadenza Challenge:

And a very special thank you to Geelong Writers members Judy Rankin and Stephen Sayers for opening their music for us to step inside and explore.

Please scroll down to read the submissions beneath each of the two musical compositions.

Beautiful

The following responses were inspired by Beautiful by Judy Rankin

The Rise

‘Music is a torch with which to see where beauty lies’

Atahualpa Yupanqui (Argentine poet & musician)

(i) BOUNDEN

We walk the tightrope

of life’s tenuous grace

tethered to trauma

Tied as it were

to a tenure of transition

tread cautiously

Treaty between time

and animus

a catharsis

We try to turn the tide

of this Titan’s hold

temper the trace of tentacles

that now past

(ii) UNBOUNDEN

And yet…

I hear the refrain of now

alluring

a resonance of grace

I feel the air

laced with the sapidity of sea-salt

a mantle of mist

My mind

leavened with sound

rises

Through the brume

into that radiance

of an Autumn gone

Where mothers sang

and children played

in fields of delight

Before the harvest

of time’s cruel scythe

Around me deciduous decibels fall

golden leaf-litter

through which I drift

Where two worlds

percussion and strings

meet in harmony

beauty of sound

Vibrations of peace

into a troubled earth

a troubled mind

Marriage of hemispheres

conscious and subconscious

connected

the feather touch of a lover’s hands

drift across your being

look into the depths

see reflected beauty

drawn from the ghats of time

Harmony, our road to next.

By David Jones

The Shell and the Stone

I love walking along the beach. Since splitting from my wife of 44 years, it has become my favourite form of therapy. I always pick up shells and stones and marvel at them.

After one particularly stressful discussion with my ex, I was walking on the sand, hoping to find a really beautiful shell to lift my mood. Incredibly, each time one caught my eye, further examination revealed that it was only part of a shell. The rest had broken off in the ocean’s turbulence.

I settled on trying to find a pretty stone, and while I could find many that had been perfectly smoothed by the same forces that had ruined the shells, they were all rather dull and uninteresting.

Our lives are like shells and stones. I’m happy that mine has been like a shell. Even though I am no longer complete or attractive, I feel that for a time, I was. Those that live like stones, will no doubt last longer but will be perennially dull and insignificant.

We may not get to choose what we will be but let us celebrate the shells that make the world interesting whether they are now whole or broken.

By John Farrington

Everything Returns

0:05
Far, far east on a cliff top
Amongst the salt marshes and goats
Looking down on an ocean of blue, black and white
That toys with tiny fishing boats

0:19
A victim of countless harsh winters
The sharp wind lashes at him whole
The sun ghostly behind a haze of clouds
Still, he waits for his pot of gold

0:33
An ancient tale of tides and waves
Of twists and turns in the breeze
Can’t turn back the tide, stop the rain or sunshine
Can’t raise the dead, secrets held in the trees

0:49
Lives and memories are written in the sand
Lovers, heroes, friends and foe
All will end as it began

Cities built then lost at sea
Rebellion and defeat
All these things return one day
Everything returns

1:11
History repeats itself
Everything returns
History repeats itself
Everything returns
We all hope that someone who’s lost
Will one day return
Everything returns

1:28
Everything returns

1:33
A spectre of himself lingers
Wishes he could shrivel up and blow away
Wishes the sea would swallow him whole
Wash him clean, save the decay

1:45
History repeats itself
Everything returns
History repeats itself
We all hope that someone who’s lost
Will one day return
Everything returns

By Adam Stone

Musical Steps

It’s sunrise and Lorelle is walking in Eastern Park. The gentle music of a lone busker’s violin weaves through the air, each note echoing off the pine tree canopy above. Sunlight filters through the branches, casting dappled shadows on the gravel path ahead of her. Birds seemingly harmonize with the busker’s violin, their chirping a natural symphony to the tranquil environment. The crunch of her feet on gravel complements the rhythm, creating a relaxing ambiance.

As she strolls along, the violin’s soft cadence matches the sway of the trees in the gentle breeze. The scent of freshly mown grass mingles with wildflowers and shrubbery, filling the air with a peat whisky, earthy aroma. A wren darts across the path, pauses briefly to study her, then disappears into a nearby bush.

The violin’s melody is a constant companion to her every step, her every thought, guiding and allowing her to escape from the rigours of her partner’s recent illness and the busyness of everyday life.

Eastern Park is alive with beauty. For her, it is her moment; sanctuary where time is slow and her walk a waltz with nature.

By Allan Barden

Daylesford: Unicorn Cottage

Yesterday my brown-leaf life

attacked my thin skin

wet-slapped my face

decreed I blubber past mistakes

so I packed my large bag and left

behind an injured door.

Now

I’m where cushions absorb thunder –

stoking coals on haunches satisfies.

Pale light shivers at seven

from hushed snowflake clouds

soft greys filter fleece through lace

curtains casting shawls

across my huddling shoulders

frosting my nylon nightgown

like a dawn-lit pine-wood.

Lake-ripple-lute and minstrel flute

drift The Lady of Shalott’s melody

through worry-empty rooms

mingling with hot buttered toast

a taste of marmalade and steaming tea

flowing on to ghostly Convent Gallery.

Here where bards sing and hills ring

with charming chimney smoke

I open wide the holiday cottage door

let tickles of snowflakes fall

on my naked turned-up toes and

in shadows blue where illusions dwell

I hear a longing call

and sight a swift glass-spun unicorn

dashing away to distant Camelot.

Behind me

a mirror cracks.

By Jan Price

Solace in the Solstice

Beautiful is the winter solstice

Celebrated and revered since ancient times

Through traditional festivals and rites

Honouring nature’s cycles, rhythms and patterns

Giving animals and plants a time to rest

Refresh and prepare for renewed growth.

For us, it’s a chance to rug up and bunker down

Reflect and replenish our energy levels

Care for our personal spiritual health

Reconnect with family and friends

Enjoy warm winter food and drink

As waning daylight hours begin to lengthen.

Bonfires no longer are lit on the night

Instead there are lanterns and candles

To represent light in the darkness that is

While devotees partake in the global events

That remind one and all of the passage of time

As the Earth tilts away from the Sun.

Gail Griffin

Poseidon Fate

(Spoken word or lyrics. The approximate seconds are indicated where each line accompanies the music, commencing at the 27 second mark after the first 4 bars.)

27 Roaming the ocean your wisdom we seek

33 Tranquil symphony, endless mystique

39 Spiritual grace, acoustic psalm

44 Magnificent song-line, breathtaking calm

49 When breaching and rolling colliding with waves

54 Orchestral slam, nautical raves

60 Blowhole erupts, great plumes of spray

106 Mighty jaws sweep up your minuscule prey

111 Blustering power of pectoral fins

117 Tail slapping timpani accompany heavenly hymns

123 Wailsome squeals and echoing sighs

128 Unreachable octaves, inaccessible cries

134 An elegy, a sonnet, euphonic score

139 Angelic harmonies, a mermaid’s roar

145 We watch in wonder as you migrate

150 Through merciless seas

153 Your unknown – Poseidon fate

By Sue Gourlay

Beautiful Memories

The credits slowly scrolled down the screen after the film had come to an unsatisfactory end. The hypnotic tune over the sound system complemented the sadness and grief the Iranian film had projected regarding war, pain, and displacement. Cecille held Scott’s hand tighter while struggling to hold back her tears.

‘Scott this maybe hasn’t been a good idea–such a sad way to say goodbye.’

‘I know. That music is breaking me in two,’ replied Scott.

The young couple sat tanned and out of place in an audience of pale winter-locked Berliners.

Scott nuzzled into Cecille’s dark hair. Her smell transported him to the world of Kashmir and houseboats. A place of crisp clear mornings, and distant snow-capped mountains. He was again back next to the form of her perfect naked back, sleeping late and breakfasts of warm porridge.

Nirvana was cut short after a message to Cecille from home. It was a frantic trip with a Magic bus ride to Berlin, sleeping rough in cheap hostels, ending in a darkened theatre sheltering from the rain. Their affair would end with a connecting flight to Montreal for Cecille with Scott forever haunted on rainy days by the tune Beautiful.

By Douglas Wroe

a handy pocket guide to beauty

By John Heritage

Nature is beautiful

She lies on her back, her fingers dancing over the damp grass like piano keys as she allows all the tension to leave her body through a soft sigh of parted lips. White marshmallow clouds tinged with grey drift overhead as the cool wind stirs up the last of the fallen leaves beneath bare branches. The sun is low in the silvery sky, and suddenly, the air is full of thousands of wingbeats and soft flight calls. A murmuration of Starlings demonstrates a dazzling display of acrobatics and dance moves. Soaring and swooping, they move with grace and agility as they head to roost before sunset. The show is over. She stands and walks home to her own sanctuary. Nature has brought her peace.

By Pauline Rimmer

What never was

I waited

For the day

That never was

To be seen

And

To be heard

But that day never was

Love is never the answer

If you cannot hear it

If you cannot speak it

It was never your language

And so I move on

To live another day

That will come to be

What never was

By Giselle Sim

Winter Solstice

The following submissions were inspired by Winter Solstice by Stephen Sayers

Arabic Wedding

Expectant, euphoric, exciting, the mood simmers

with guests, holding hands, rushing to form two lines

amid the hotel foyer’s surrounding opulence–

a stunning interplay of marble, crystal chandeliers and gold.

The Maybach limo crawls to a halt, driver alights and strides

to open the door for the bride wearing an exquisitely-sequined white gown

with fur-lined, hooded cape—a nod to the cooler desert night –

to be met by her nervous groom, full of celebratory energy.

A distant, sonorous, ancestral, tribal beat is struck by drums

in unison with quanun, ney and ud, playing zaffe—the wedding march–

singers, dancers, twisting, turning, kicking legs, stomping feet

zaghareet—ear-splitting sound—long, high-pitched, wavering vocal.

Bubbles rain down on both bride and groom entering the hall–

a kaleidoscopic tunnel festooned with flowers–

leading to the ballroom where mezze feasts await

the revellers, still throbbing with wild abandon.

The procession halts at the grand ballroom doors

where the festive anticipation crescendos

before the portals are thrust open inwardly

to reveal an already gyrating, beat-matching DJ.

Dae aliaihtifal yabda’u! Let the celebrations begin!

Long into the night, underneath the illuminated dome

family and friends endorse the newlyweds’ union

on the darkest night of the year.

By Gail Griffin

From the Pall

Indeed, the Sun has died, to rise again.

Far away

in distance, and time

a people gathered

amid stones aligned

drawn by, that-unknown

I hear voices, picked notes

floating from shadows of was

to reach now,

to herald hibernal tilt

Now a ‘new-they‘ gather, upon an esker

these notes, and me

pushed by the past

drawn by, that-to-come

We watch and wait

embrace the night

to herald the day

Below, undulations of a sapient sea

containment of our past

drawn to, that-to-be

We watch and wait

embrace the dark

to herald the light

Above, in the blackness

the notes do sing

laments of what-was

to herald a new-born sun

And in the extent, its crowning birth

the sky will blaze

the sea to burnish

We watch and wait

embrace the light

to herald the dark

Whilst below,

undulations, our cerebral sea

absorb the night that was

Now to rise

free at last

from winter’s pall

we raise our heads to, that-will-be.

By David Jones

A Simile

It’s Winter deep

and outside this forsaken Abby

a wanton wind feigns a melancholy

hymn toned like a ghost-choir of mourning

monks injecting subliminal curses

while proceeding as one body

through Russian-blue gloom

on freezing slippered feet.

Amidst the lament

of loosely tied swishing girdles

the random ding dong

bong of the tossing rusted bell

clang their friary lanterns

against the drains and downpipes

while in this mind there forms a tale

of what dark loss they might bewail;

‘Imbibe our chill with half a swill

And draw us to your fires.

We’ve no grapes to crush – our still’s a’hush

Though we have but one desire

To rape the vine to oak the wine

And lace its youth with Purple Hood

Then sell it dear to those inclined

To drunken Christians from doing good.’

But no Purple blooms are seen to grow

with hooded seeds that spoor and spread.

No noxious wine to flog and fray

with Autumn’s light now passed away

and Springtime’s green asleep beneath

a swirling cassock of winter snow

while upon this night and worried mind

the wind’s cursing moans lament a loss

as if dormant evil seeds

truly do lie like sin below!

By Jan Price

Ghosts of Music Past

Music; a simply wondrous phenomenon.

Whatever its genre, music has a profound ability to conjure up memories and emotions in me that act as a trigger for recalling past experiences. When I listen to a song, I can be instantly transported right back to a specific moment in time and to the emotion associated with that moment.

Through a song, or a particular note, chord, riff or lick, I can tie a life experience to the music due to the physical or mental context in which it was experienced. Such experiences are stored deeply in my psyche and allows me to relive cherished or significant moments from my past.

Much of my music collection of vinyls, and CDs from my ‘Baby Boomer’ 60s to the present day not only brings me supreme enjoyment but can summon a memory of a past life moment of happiness, sadness, success, regret or failure.

Some memories one would sooner forget but they, like all the rest, live on and can’t be forgotten. Fortunately, I just can’t chase the ghosts away and I don’t really want to. They are me and the music is in me.

Allan Barden

Pleading the Fifth

LB flew about the room in a rage. How could they! After he’d been eagerly waiting all year. It simply wasn’t fair.

He tore at his hair.

But now this! He had a good mind to cancel his membership, to contact A Current Affair, to take it all the way to the International Criminal Court!

He gnashed his teeth.

To think that in this day and age of diversity and inclusion, where all members—regardless of their faith, gender, sexual orientation, culture, race, age, neurodiversity, education or socioeconomic status—were encouraged, indeed welcomed, to participate, he was being excluded. All because of his disability.

He rent his robe.

And now the prompt had arrived in his mail box. The Winter Solstice Writing Challenge. A challenge with a twist, a ‘Cadenza’ challenge asking him to let a music composition lead him on a journey.

He shook his fist at the heavens and took the Lord’s name in vain.

The gall of them! That they would assume that every member can hear!

Quivering, LB took up his goose quill, dipped it in his inkwell, paused to gather his rage into a tsunami and then wrote:

By Martin Smith

[Martin Smith’s tongue-in-cheek contribution to this month’s Ekphrastic Challenge has inadvertently pointed to an oversight for which I take full responsibility and I thank him for bring it to my attention.

On reflection our prompt for June was undeniably exclusionary and would have presented an almost impossible challenge to anyone with a profound hearing deficit. For this I sincerely apologise.

In future, any prompt of an aural nature will be complemented by a visual one to permit choice. Please note the visual prompts for ekphrastic challenges are also conveyed in a written form which may also be accessed via audio apps.

Guenter Sahr, President, Geelong Writers]

NGV Dayconstructed

(To be read down from column one through to column three.)

By Sue Gourlay

Words in the wind

The boy presses his nose up against the cold glass. Raindrops drip from the eaves in a steady curtain. His breath fogs up the window, and the tree outside distorts into grasping fingers beckoning him. He hears mumbled words in the cold wind rattling the window frame. The rain increases, causing rivulets of water to cascade. Patterns form and dissolve as he watches. He is safe inside, but outside, he hears them calling, always calling and searching.

By Pauline Rimmer

Everything is Oooh