- Main (1)
- Poetry (10)
- Quotations (1)
- Ranting (1)
- Short Fiction (8)
- Wishes (1)
- June 9, 2008: (Poem) A Writer's Prayer
- June 9, 2008: (Poem) Chasing Moonbeams
- May 8, 2008: (Poem) "I move to write..."
- April 4, 2008: Excerpt from "The White Goddess", Robert Graves (1948)
- January 6, 2008: (Poem) The Biddlyblatch
- December 29, 2007: (Poem) A Dove in the Hand, A Nickel in my Pocket
- December 6, 2007: (Musings on Muses) Erato
- November 17, 2007: (Poem) Rest Thee Well My Friend
- October 16, 2007: (Poem) Untitled Fates Poem
- October 2, 2007: (DJ Syncope 2) The best audiences are captive
(Musings on Muses) Euterpe
An Old Muse
Six string guitars play as well in black hands as white,
music crowding out burdened bars to fill streets with standing,
they come to hear stories, pains, the picking of young and old.
In time as day turns to night the music gains its height,
with revelers pouring out drinks, hearts, souls, on each landing,
but over broken glass and in stripping heat, they’ll still dance bold.
She walks among the beautiful party people, stalking their sounds,
there in the beginning, standing by while tuning came, went,
since first times when men cried aloud for company and now still.
Children curse, women sing, and men dance for rounds,
as she walks off, in wake a tune of her devised symphonic bent,
and even though nobody knows she is there, it is her granting this thrill.
—-
A New Muse
My mirror that sings back those saccharine sharp hymns,
I remember her pressed, entwined, new music on old limbs.
My muscles creeking in tense new ways as I reel.
Now I reach out wishing for forgiveness, for sweetness to feel.
But those pale golden strands hang harp-like beyond reach,
trapped in a cage of petty pain and rage, my sanity’s leech.
I hold regrets as twice hypocrisy now in each hand,
that tender music beyond me now, I scour this barren land.
And I remember back to the beauty of your songs,
not those played on keys, but on a heart without wrongs,
only for tears to fall on my keys, not of lyric but plain word,
running silent, forgetting the music and by everyone unheard.
October 22, 2007 at 3:53 pm
She takes a breath, flute poised, as the theme is laid in exposition.
A soft melancholic pianissimo crying out in need.
There is response in the orchestra, once, twice, then counterpoint.
Beautiful strains of harmony sing in a brighter key of warmth, beauty, love.
The symphony begins.
Polyphonic melodies seemingly fit together.
The soloists each play out, wishing their passage to be the most pleasing.
One assists the flutist with an emergency repair, secretly an everlasting strain.
Jealousy, doubts, pairing, playing out of tune, the performance always continues.
Though they tire and struggle, the music does not end.
Unknown to her, there played another tune, not from the same staff.
From afar, another in the ensemble cries out.
She cannot drown out his grave melody, tainted with grief, it becomes her own.
Vibrato turns to sobbing cries that spiral, overpowering the entire orchestra.
Dissonance. Cacophony. Until it crescendos to insanity. It all falls apart.
The opening theme is recapitulated.
How does one seek absolution for that which they cannot forgive themselves?
How does one soothe the pains for which they feel responsible? With more music?
Sometimes the ears need a respite from these sounds, the only gift that love can offer.
Between movements, there is uncomfortable silence, the unknowing audience unsure.
Should they applaud? Is it over?
In the distance sings regret as the flutist nurses a mournful requiem.
June 9, 2008 at 6:40 am
Off stage long after the symphony has ended, echoes chase through his mind.
Demanding words from him, an explanation in terms and human sounds.
The music inside fighting itself like two strays clawing over a meager bone of the memory.
He holds in his hands the shakes of her pain, the pain of his guilt in that he let the flutist part the stage wordlessly, the guilt of her pain left too strong and unstaunched by even an attempt.
His fears grip him as the last notes fade in memory, eyes terrified at his instrument; his heart hanging in wonder at what his presumption allowed him to undertake far too lightly.
He had cared about the music, he had worried for the flutist, but he had not considered the dissonance his notes would bring to the symphony and her hard-earned catharsis.
He worried… if perhaps his moments of music may have done more harm than good.