cross-state road trip—
traveling with my daughter
three miles per song
Posts Tagged ‘singing’
One Measure
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged daughter, mother, poem, poetry, road trip, singing on June 10, 2019| 3 Comments »
Why I Like Singing the Same Concert Six Times
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Heartbeat, music, poem, poetry, singing, transformation on March 3, 2019| Leave a Comment »
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
On Christmas Eve
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Christmas, daughter, hymn, parents, poem, poetry, singing on December 24, 2018| 1 Comment »
We sat in the pew
furthest back in the church.
My father would hum all the hymns
and I’d lean closer to him and hum along,
then lean toward my mother
and sing with her the words—
I swayed between them like a metronome,
humming, then singing, then
humming, then singing.
How giddy I was, grateful to be the girl
between them. I did not yet know how
difficult it was to be a parent.
I only knew how good it felt
to be loved, how safe I felt between them,
how delighted I was to find in myself
some part of each of them,
so delighted that even now,
over forty years later
and a thousand miles away,
I remember that night
and begin to sway.
One While Making Applesauce
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apples, poem, poetry, singing on October 27, 2018| Leave a Comment »
One Acapella Evening
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Heartbeat, poem, poetry, relaxation, singing on August 26, 2018| Leave a Comment »
One Afternoon with Ulli & Jen
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged friendship, poem, poetry, singing on May 17, 2018| Leave a Comment »
singing beside the falls
the sound of the water
drowns out our voices
but that isn’t any reason
to stop singing
Though We Focus So Much on Finding Our Voice
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged breath, poem, poetry, silence, singing, voice on March 29, 2018| Leave a Comment »
The sound of your breath is the quietest of songs.
—Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
Maybe on that day
when we think, I forgot
to sing, that’s when we
realize that all day long
we harmonized with the world
in the quietest of songs—
joined in without any effort,
no striving at all,
and maybe that is the day
when we stop trying
to be heard and start
to notice the song
inside every other song,
the song inside every other being,
how perfectly in tune we are,
how easily we join—no conductor,
no notes, no beat, just one perfect
air. Maybe that’s the day we hear
the metronome of our own
steady heart and say to it,
I will trust you, feel the truth
of the song as it slips
from our lips, then
rushes in to fill us again.
Big Love
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, poem, poetry, singing on February 15, 2017| 2 Comments »
Why
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged parenting, poem, poetry, singing on January 7, 2017| 6 Comments »
There are yet words that come near the unsayable,
and, from crumbling stones, a new music
to make a sacred dwelling in a place we cannot own.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus, Part Two X
Before bed, my daughter asks me
why in school they learn to sing,
I mean, she says, it’s not like that’s
what we’ll do when we grow up.
And part of me longs to answer her
with stories of my own—
how the stone of our losses dissolves
into tune, how we become wave,
become surge, blur with tone,
how song opens up every door
we might close, how it holds us
when nothing and no one else will.
Instead, I tuck the question
under her pillow as she climbs in bed,
hope it finds the trapdoor into her sleep,
hope the unsayable answer will weave itself
into her dreams like a river,
like light in a forest, like a breeze
in July, like a song that finds the lips
again and again and each time makes them new.
Why I Attend Choir Concerts
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged attitude, choir, connection, depression, poem, poetry, singing on December 11, 2016| 1 Comment »
Walking on the muddy path, I try
to convince myself it would be easy
to be happy. I’m not hurt, my family is well,
and the sun is almost out. I tell myself,
look, look how the ice from last night’s storm
clings to the tips of the branches
and, as it melts, see how the whole world
seems to gather in a drop. But there is a snarl
deep within that is snagged in the thorns,
trapped in the ice, intent on locking itself
out of heaven. It scowls at the wind,
at the sound of the traffic, it grimaces
at the story of itself and retells the same
sad story. It is hours later I notice
how easy it is to fall in love with the world—
how it takes no effort, no convincing at all
to weep at the beauty of hundreds of people
singing together, oh the deep melting,
how the whole world gathers in a drop.
Hurry, Hurry
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, poetry, singing on October 21, 2016| 1 Comment »
So when we get to the measure
in the Hungarian folksong
where a man begs a boatman
to carry him across the sea
where his lover is waiting,
we decide as a group to sing it hushed,
hushed but urgent, says Jenny,
and we all agree, though when we get
to the phrase, we all forget the hush
and collectively belt out his longing
like a celebration, urgent and vital,
of all the longing that rings the world,
all the ways we yearn to connect, to love,
to stand beneath the window
of the one we adore and say
here, I am here.
Fragment
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged poem, poetry, singing on August 11, 2016| 1 Comment »
Our lives are full of unexpected surges of kindness that seem to come from nowhere.
—Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
Under the plum tree
I sit with a stranger
and sing for an hour
the old songs—
we take turns
with the melody
and the harmony
and for this time
the heart forgets
the word loneliness
and the plums fall
red and heavy
into our un-expecting hands.
Heartbeat in Concert, March 31, 6:30 p.m. Telluride, Ah Haa School
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged a cappella, Heartbeat, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, singing, Telluride on March 25, 2015| 1 Comment »
It’s poetry set to music … come hear Heartbeat in concert. Seven women singing all genres of music, a cappella.
Here’s a link to an article about our group and what one might expect at the concert.
For an Hour, at Least, on Thanksgiving
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged family, love, poem, poetry, singing, thanksgiving on November 28, 2014| 1 Comment »
I hear America singing, varied carols I hear.
–Walt Whitman
After the mashed potatoes were passed
and after the wine was sipped from the glass
and after the children had left their plates
and before we were ready for pie and cake
we sat around the table and sang
Hotel California, Scarborough Fair,
Morning Has Broken, Walk the Line,
Blister in the Sun, Wild Mountain Thyme
Moon River and My Romance,
Blood on the Saddle, If I Were a Rich Man,
and the words we didn’t know we hummed
or we la-dee-dahed until we found
a phrase to lead us in again.
It’s so like music, gratitude,
the way it draws us closer in
and makes the world feel intimate,
as if anything could happen,
even peace, even love.
What We Practice While Singing A Capella
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged a capella, communion, music, singing, unity on June 7, 2014| Leave a Comment »
for Heartbeat
Here, rest in my voice
on this note we share.
And when you breathe,
I will carry the song.
And when I breathe
I know you’ll be there.
And this is how
the song goes on.
And this is how
we disappear.
Liederkreis, Opus 24
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged Liederkreis, music, piano, poem, poetry, Schumann, singing, song on September 17, 2013| 1 Comment »
Cosi e’, se vi pare
(That’s the way it is, if it seems that way to you)
—Italian saying
Under my fingers,
the chords are familiar,
allegretto, in 2/4 time.
I lean into the ritardandos,
swelling the passing tensions,
failing to remember to exhale.
The lyrics, perhaps because
they are in German,
are beautiful. I can forget
that they speak of sleepless
nights and helplessness,
and dreams that languish
unfulfilled. My voice drifts
into the rafters. What
do I know of dreams?
There is so much I do not know.
Even this life I call my own.
What do I know of it?
Who taught them to sing,
the birds in autumn?
Who taught them to dance,
the leaves? Tonight, I do not see them,
the shadows my voice moves through
as I follow the staffs in front of me.
Nor do I think of translation. Nor
do I think of who is listening,
nor of who is not. For now,
there is Schumann and Heine,
there is this voice that is borrowing me,
there is this song that says
it must be sung.
Frightened at the Edge
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged cancer, fear, poem, poetry, river, singing, surgery on March 4, 2013| 3 Comments »
We were better at it then.
On the muddy desert river
in our yellow rubber boat,
you would sit in front
and I would sit in back
and as our bow
would slide onto the glossy
slick tongue of the rapid,
we’d begin to sing.
Opera. Neither of us
knew a thing about opera,
except that it made us feel
invincible to sing the highest
notes we could hit and to hear
each other trilling just above
the white roar. We thrilled
at the edge of chaos. Joy
in our ignorance. Confusion
did not seem to have the same
bite it does now when you call
me to say the surgery is Wednesday
and you’ll know then if the three tumors
are malignant. I do not sing
when you tell me. Nor after we hang up,
unless you call whimpering song.
Which perhaps it is, though I do not
feel brave, standing on the edge
of this new chaos, you in front
again, this current much stronger
than we can paddle against. I feel
our humanity, how the end is all
wrapped up in the middle,
the beginning, how little we know
and how fragile we are. I look
out the skylight at the buds
on the cottonwood trees.
They are swelling, though not
yet green. They do not resemble
what they will become,
but experience tells us
to expect a bright green unfurling.
We have no experience now
with what comes next. But we
do know how to sing a high warble,
trill it high above the hospital hum.
I am rusty, but mustering the voice
to sing to you from here,
even though I no longer believe
it will keep us from sinking.
After Seeing Godspell, Les Miserables and Zikr Dance in One Weekend
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged dance, Godspell, in love with the world, life, musical, poem, poetry, singing, Zikr on February 3, 2013| 2 Comments »
It starts in the shower at the Hot Springs Pool.
I am singing about the water, how good it feels,
so warm on my shoulders. I am aware there
are other people bathing in nearby stalls,
so I sing it on my breath, a little embarrassed,
but by the time I flounce into the parking lot,
I am singing in full voice to my children to please,
get in the car now, it’s time for lunch. I sashay to avoid
the mud puddles, and unlock the car doors
with a minor flourish of my hand. The car, it hums
a drone for the rest of the days characters
to harmonize against, and so, it seems, the mountains do.
They are singing in the key of February, which is a white,
steep chorus I usually do not hear over the sound
of the radio. But today, it is clear and rousing, and the snow
joins in on the long ride home. Even my son points out
how loud the flakes are as they sing against the panes. At dinner,
I chant to my girl, would you like some pears,
and the offer echoes off the roofbeams. She affirms
with an arpeggio of giggles and so I waltz to the pantry
where the pears croon a late summer sweetness right
out of the jar and onto her plate. It is, perhaps, always
this way, I think, each thing singing its singular song,
and every step a step in the dance in which we all meet
and separate and meet again, turn away and meet again,
and I can’t help but wonder what keeps us
from in every moment wildly clapping, ovation after
ovation, our hands fierce and staccato with praise.
Snippet
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged change, dimeter, loss, memory, poetry, present moment, singing, yielding on May 15, 2012| 3 Comments »
Sing a new song. —Psalm 144:9
That song I sang
so long, so long,
so brimming with
sincerity,
I hardly can
recall the tune …
though it was something
like duh dum,
duh dum, duh duh dum …
or was it duh dah dum
duh dah dum …
I almost forget
I knew the song
at all, except
today a strand
of tune wound round
my thoughts just like
a scarlet ribbon
tied around
the pinkie finger
reminding me
I should remember
something, something
once so vital,
so important
now a blurry
memory.
And then the errant
strand of tune
was gone. Gone?
How could it end?
I sang it everywhere
I went. I lost
myself in its glissando,
fermata, sforzando
and painississimo.
I sang it ferocious,
I sang it tender.
The song, it was
my everything,
That’s all I can
remember.
Featherless but Flying Haiku
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged contentment, darkness, haiku, joy, poem, poetry, singing on March 17, 2012| 3 Comments »
I guess I’d make
a crummy bird … here I am
singing in the darkness.