WalpurgisnachtA Poem by David Lewis PagetI
had met Hans down in Frankfurt At
the rebuilt Opera House, We
were there to hear Mendelssohn, Not
really my first choice, ‘I
would rather come for Bach,’ I said, His
face lit in delight, ‘Ah,
but this is special too, my friend, Die
erste Walpurgisnacht!’ He
was not a man of many words, But
music thrilled his soul, He
began to talk, to lecture me On
classics, new and old, I
confessed I was not learned in these, My
education poor, ‘But
then, you must come visit me,’ He
told me, at the door. He
lived in the Harz Mountains Up
on Brocken, in the north, Where
the spirits of Old Germany Come
out, and venture forth, A
half-timbered, medieval house I
found, with gargoyles pale Set
round the edges of the eaves; The
village was called Thale. The
door creaked as he opened it, On
hinges, rusted brown, He
barely smiled as I went in, In
fact, I think he frowned, Perhaps
he had forgotten that He’d
said to come that day, In
April, on the thirtieth, What
for, I couldn’t say. He
led me through a passageway That
lay in quiet gloom, With
wooden arches, shelves of books That
led into a room, The
furniture was old and worn The
carpet drab and grey, And
there a wind-up gramophone Sat
proudly, in a bay. And
round about were piles and piles Of
those old 78’s, The
ones that our grandfathers played Through
evenings, until late, ‘There
is no power to this house,’ He
said, ‘we just make do, With
lanterns, as our fathers did Since
1642.’ He
placed a record down to spin And
cranked the old machine, But
crackling through its ancient horn The
music seemed obscene, It
leapt and plunged, and screeched and roared As
I sat there, in fright, ‘You’ll
recognise the theme,’ he said, It
is Walpurgis Night!’ The
sun sank down the mountain As
we ventured in the mist, To
where the bonfire burned that night And
witches danced, in bliss. The
villagers were out in force All
dressed in witches hats, They
waved their brooms out in the gloom And
trailed what looked like bats. The
jaegermeister flowed that night And
schnapps and apfelwein, By
midnight everyone was drunk I
stuck to beer and wine, A
girl dressed like a witch was brought Manhandled
though the crowd, Her
hands were tied, and Hans had sighed, And
stood, with his head bowed. They
thrust the girl into the fire She
only screamed but twice, Hans
turned to me, ‘Walpurgis Night Demands
a sacrifice!’ I
stood there with my mouth agape, ‘That
girl was not a witch!’ ‘Our
Saint Walpurga needed her, Our
only choice was… Which?’ I
turned away, I felt quite sick, And
stared down in the mist, A
phantom that seemed far away Stared
back, I thought ‘Desist!’ It
grew to a tremendous size A
head of coloured beams, ‘If
that is Saint Walpurga, Hans, You
tell her, she’s obscene!’ I
don’t know how I found my car, I
staggered down the mount, I
found so many dead ends there Far
more than I could count, I
knew I had to get away My
face was grey and pale, I’ll
not return Walpurgis Night To
any place called Thale! David
Lewis Paget © 2012 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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9 Reviews  Last Updated on December 30, 2012 Tags: Mendelssohn, Germany, Thale, Brocken Author
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