Poetry reading

His hair stood out like fuse wire in a rage

His eyes gleamed like the sun trapped in a cage

As he read his poem I was impressed

By the gift of words he has been blessed.

The women were enraptured as they gazed

His poetry was as complex as a maze.

His voice played on my heart I was well used.

Music is the food of love,I mused.

And poetry is our music,our music and our guide

If we cannot listen,out hearts will shrink and die

The music of you

The music

of

your voice

I shall never hear.

I shall never

play a duo with you.

Would we harmonize?

Or find some compromise?

Does one need to hear

the sound of someone's heart,

transposed into verbal music..

Or can we manage without it?

Ideolect

Sociolect.

Circumspect?

Words reveal the lost soul.

But not the whole story.

Play it again

But this time

Speak it.

I want to hear the music

Of you.

Oh,play your poignant music for me with your meditative art.

You play on your clarinet;

I play on my cello.

Your music is poignant;

My music is mellow.

I can’t read your music;

You can’t play from mine.

Our music must be transposed,

But will not be the same.

I have longer fingers.

You have bigger hands.

You play some from memories

which I don’t understand.

I play from my own history,

You compose your own.

You have tragic feelings,

which I have never known.

Would you play my music?

Then it must be transposed;

but we can’t transpose our feelings,

Unless we are shown

how to draw out symbols

From the dark Unknown.

I love the music that you play

and I know you do love mine.

But can we play together

with a meaningful design?

Transposing keys and feelings

Is an arduous,lengthy task;

Much easier to play falsely

and never,never ask.

I can’t share your lifetime hurts

and you cannot share mine.

Is it easier to share happiness

and in love to entwine?

Oh,play your poignant music for me

with your meditative art.

I shall listen with my ears

and listen with my heart.

And then I shall respond to you.

My instrument is here.

I am playing quite new music.

I feel you drawing near.

Suddenly we are moved to play

A completely new design.

I seem to feel your feelings

And I can hear that you feel mine.

Together we seem to make a work

Of torment and release.

This music is so tragic,

Yet its design has brought me peace.

Play on,play on,for now I know

I begin to understand,

without more words or gestures

than those from your curved hands

Going home

Dory Previn:Mythical kings and iguanas

Reverberations

What a day

Serebro in the music video Lets Hold Hands. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like a piece of ground where bombs go off repeatedly,
my inner landscape is perpetually marked
by these explosions of sorrow,
made all the worse
by the lack of a listening ear,
a warm open heart
or an outstretched hand.

I have constructed a map
but it's incomplete,by its nature;
so even now,I might stumble into an old hole
or a new one,created
by reverberations underground;
the noise like distant music,
a  constant drumbeat.

We do not dance
I might call it the Liturgy of Loss,
a dance to the music of rhyme;
Patterns and shapes hold the feelings
and express them.The shape of these forms
is a container for the grief.

In this way,I indicate
that life will go on;I hear the healing music
and sing to its melodies
like a mermaid on the edge of the sea in winter
when the water is cold and green like his eyes,
and the rocks are hard like large fists.Nature can be a symbol for such emotion
we cannot walk without a tear in ech eye
and a softening of our hearts
as tenderly we touch the world
and are touched in turn by each other.Stretch out your hand to meet mine.
We can hold each other better
than each can hold theirself.
Like in sex, the meaning is not the climax
but the giving and being given;
receiving and being received.
The sacredness of the erotic needs no explanation
to a gardener or a fisherman
but may need it for the information saturated,postmodern
who dwell in the fascist virtual reality we call life today