To celebrate the start of this year’s BBC Proms, I thought I’d dust off a poem I wrote many moons ago after my first couple of visits to the Proms, and which I posted here nearly a decade ago! Nowadays, I enjoy following the Proms in the comfort of my own home, where I can sing along, swoop my imaginary bow over my invisible cello, and pound out majestic chords on my make-believe Steinway.

At the Proms

We remember not to hum along.
Wide-eyed, ears pricked,
we clasp each other’s hands
to stifle rogue conducting,
dampen the itch
to pomp out beats
with the timpanist.
Between movements
we practise sotto voce asides,
seat shuffling, staccato coughs;
then scrum the bar
for half-time drinks.
Our chit-chat’s strewn
with sporting idiom;
how every player—brass, wind, strings,
the patient striker of the single bell—
pulls together with a common goal.

What I’m straining for, second half,
fingers digging and pulsing your palm—
the whole hall behind me—
what I’m hooked on
is this restrained urging towards
the final detonation of applause.
Bravo! One nil! Encore!