TWIST the milled knob, fingers. Send needle-antenna
From Hilversum to Rome, Rome to Vienna,
Groping for music. Any kind will do:
The Moonlight Sonata or The Rhapsody in Blue;
Highbrow or lowbrow; hot, sweet, or swing;
The Dream of Gerontius or The Rustle of Spring;
A symphony in D, a nocturne in F sharp,
An organ recital or a solo for jew's harp.
And when a programme ends, cut out the applause
And twist the knob, fingers. Leave no pause.
Make ether's formlessness
Take shape again, and stress,
In cool wood-wind, or the nostalgic far
Throb of a plucked guitar.
Try the insidious Tsiganes, facile wringers
Of hearts; and when they're done, the Slusham Singers
Mincing a folk-song, bogus-hearty;
And then the What-Nots Concert Party
From Blackpool Pier;
Der Rosenkavalier
From Munich; or a dance-band from Berlin.

Twist the milled knob, fingers; needle, spin:
For here at least is rhythm, pattern, order, and the ultimate reward
Of the tonic chord.
Midnight will bring too soon
Silence, and the jangling of a heart that's out of tune.