Posts for June 12, 2021 (page 7)

II. Adagio

The piano enters, fortissimo, with descending double octaves–fast
at first, then slowing, with an extreme decrescendo, as we more toward the bass, ending on the lowest A

a solo oboe enters, restating its original song, quickly joined by the wind section,
creating a polyphony of contrasting tunes, as the piano begins a series of rapid scales,
up and down the keyboard, as the cellos and basses enter to insist on a ponderous,
hesitant cadence

the piano transitions to chords, collecting the many voices in two hands,
and the strings enter with another melody, which puts the drone of the cellos
and basses in an new, ironic context

the orchestra swells to forte as the movement modulates to the parallel major
the brass enter, adding energy to the drone, while the flutes play the oboe’s 
song, high above the rest, as the music moves back to A minor

the piano enters with double octaves on the lowest A, pianissimo,
and crescendos as the octaves rise toward the highest registers,
ending on the highest A, fortissimo

the third movement begins, without. pause

Mary Oliver is my hero.
She writes of the wren’s singing being a prayer.
There are the geese and the gulls and the sea. 
As a child, I wrote words on little scraps of paper
and kept them in a special place. 
Maybe I was a version of Mary Oliver.
How could I say such a thing?
It’s only a wish, really.
I still write words, but now they become what
they are by tapping keys.

i keep ripping answers out,
but the violence leaves holes in my body.
the empty spaces fill in with rage instead of flesh.
a piece of pottery
thrown to the floor in anger—
shattering
in a loop.
over and over and over again.
healing over with hurt each time.
like Kintsugi.
but instead of gold, it’s grief.

dog cough along the path
                    fireflies
                            gone-
birdcall covers the sky
                            up to
                     swirls of white

four dried petals- open fire
                            and fall

                      full pink purple
                            black butterfly

                             up high
                            (up hollow)

blued rays through grey
                             white waves
                      over poles and wires
                      under buzzard circles.

Rolling though life like a billiard ball
smooth and round to hide the sprite inside.
Wears disguise in order to be seen,
signaling she’s on the other side.  

Clothing to suggest a nakedness.
She’s a thimblerig – three shells and a pea.
Yearns for company, earns privacy.
Victory brings her nothing but defeat.  

terry tuel
june 12, 2009
last time 
he came to the door
to ask to use the phone

The dented blue Subaru
arrived home,
north into New England,
last night, all right,
with dead cicadas
in the grill

sometimes,
even the dead
end up where they will

snaked through a patch
of maples that sliced
the trek to Main Street
in half & placed them
in the alley behind McBride’s
Office Supplies Etc. where a rusted
yellow dumpster often stuffed
with collapsed cardboard & broken

chards of decor —  the lavender
wing of a porcelain archangel, punctured
tubes of acrylics in combat
green & indigo —  beckoned
with their off-key chorus
of throwaways and forgotten
abouts.  On Friday night

she’d uncork a half gallon bottle
of Almaden & by Saturday
night sneak to Bud’s Beverage World
at 11 pm for more. She reached meltdown, 
a can’t-turn-back
point when she’d split into flying
fragments some of which
were infused with indiscriminate
animosity.  Diatribes. Detonations.  Black

outs.  I’ll drive this rattrap straight
into the Kankakee River, then
you’ll be sorry, she snarled.  I’d leave
the house with a hidden hot
splinter of her in me. Fifteen
& undefended, except
for the option of weekend
escape, I’d dart

for the shortcut, where October
maples shift to crimson. My Red Wing
boots thud on the beaten-down
path & I toss myself like a scrap
of mirror into the broken
opportunity of the alley, the bright
anarchy of the dumpster.

We always thought the big house was forever.
It had stood on the big hill like an old god,
its sprawl a looming force over the train track.
It sat just high enough beyond the country store
that we’d see it no matter where we stood
as it watched. We known it
even through all the different renovations.
After another fire, it was razed and replaced
by a Family Dollar. The little store closed down. 

I wish I had something to end this poem:
an image of a pokeweed growing through
dollar store asphalt, but no.
There is hope here–don’t get it twisted–
but, yes, it is also sometimes sad as hell.

As children we took for granted the image
Of a heart in flames, crowned with thorns,
Art expressing devotion,
                                        A holy card holding
My place in a prayer book, once offering
Comfort vivid in expression. But
Heart remains how we describe that rare form
Of love. Beyond emotion as
                                             Flames burn away
Ego, thorns pierce illusions to
See self challenged to will
Another’s good, sacrifice comfort
In circled motion.
                              Fueling a trinity
Of endless gift, to create anew wherever
Sacred emerges from ordinary
Living, and makes possible the naming of
Heart, this love’s ocean.