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Posts Tagged ‘music’

One Staff

 

 

 

all those beautiful notes—

letting them fall from the score

and not rushing

to arrange them again,

listening as new songs arise

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One Tuning

 

 

you and I—

two notes in a minor chord

longing for resolution

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for Heartbeat

 

 

singing

the same song,

again,

but this time

the melody

finds in me

a closed,

forgotten place

and sings light

into its tightness

until where

there were walls,

now wings

 

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all day the upright

grand piano dreams of hands

that play sonatas

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One Invitation

 

 

not just to play

the song, but to be the song—

the leaping melody,

the sullen chords,

the infinite silence inside

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Arrangement

 

 

 

In my heart, a mandolin

just waiting to be played—

there are music sheets,

ignore them. Doesn’t matter

if you know how to play.

What matters is you try.

What matters is you practice

tuning the strings

until you find the way

to make them sing.

What matters is that

we both know there’s

music in there just waiting

to be found and

your hands are curious,

tender.

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It is like the musical figurine

on the bedside stand

that, for no reason,

begins to play, first

one tinkly note, then another.

The room has been quiet,

and now, the small ceramic girl

with her pink sun hat

and her kneeling sheep moves

ever so slightly and the invisible metal

tines plink out notes

to an unfamiliar song.

And then they stop. And then

start again. There is no

visible hand turning

the crank to initiate

the music. And isn’t that

just how it happens sometimes,

how you feel as if

you, too, do not feel nor see

the hand that turns you,

but out of nothing

a music arrives in you

and though it is

a mystery, you nod

and say thank you, thank you.

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for Wallace Hartley and the musicians of the Titanic

 

 

And as the splendid ship began to list

and as the people scrambled on the decks,

the band struck up a ragtime tune, and next

they played an autumn waltz. Yes there, amidst

the screaming and the shouts, the band persisted,

giving to the night what they gave best—

the peace that comes from melody. They blessed

the crowd with song till waves consumed the ship.

 

How is it that they all agreed to stay?

Some artist’s creed? Some sense this was their gift?

Survivors say they heard the soaring staves

of hymns escort them as they rowed away—

still heard them as the aft began to lift.

And sink. Then nothing but Atlantic waves.

 

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and suddenly I’m singing

in the cereal aisle,

unable to turn the music up

and dancing anyway—

the words spin me

like old friends,

My older self looks back

at me and says,

that’s right,

move it sister

while you still hear

the music, while you still

can dance.

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with thanks to Kyra

 

 

Minor and slow,

the Russian death song

on the cello

fills the room

with loss and beauty,

the two rubbing

together like notes

side by side on the scale

played at the same time.

I lay on the floor

beneath the great instrument

and feel the waves of it

as if they originate inside me—

play it again, I beg

the cellist, and then,

when it’s done, I beg her

again, play it again,

And she does. And she does,

the warm notes filling

any chill they find.

 

 

 

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