Sink or swim
with her or him,
black or white
or dark or light,
look high and low
in rain or snow
for this or that,
tit for tat.
Space and time,
rhythm, rhyme,
all these so dear
I’d like to hear
them every day,
if I may.
Let it be,
set it free,
make a sound
that goes around
the world and back.
Take the tack
that life’s a treat
if there’s a beat
and it swings.
Strum those strings.
I write poems
to save my life
without leisure
for pleasure.
Face up against
night’s pointed gun
only my pen sincere
can right wrongs.
Despite proof of
my many failures
my broken nose
smells a happy ending.
Clouds come from
Somewhere unseen
Moving on out of sight
Leaving only this
To be seen
I.
Robert and Clara Schumann are coming in the afternoon
–God willing, Johannes will not be with them–
and I will play for them my new Nocture. It is,
I believe, my best yet.
It begins with a reverie in B-flat minor,
modulates to D-flat major as a mazurka
theme enters, then the storm enters–
thundering bass and bright stabs of
light in the upper register.
The piece modulates back to B-flat
minor, as the storm subsides–the
mazurka theme added as a counterpoint
to the reverie theme.
It ends with a simple
cadence, the notes of the large
chords rolled, bottom to top,
ending on a B-flat major chord.
II.
Robert and Clara are here. Johannes
Brahms is, of course, with them. We will
have tea, and then it will be time to play.
I take secret delight in knowing the art
that awaits them. Clara, I believe,
will love the Nocturne best.
I am holding in the joy I feel,
having done this good work.
The artist does not always
enjoy what he has done, but
this time, the stars aligned–
nature brought forth something
worthy from my heart, through
my fingers, out of the piano.
III.
They hate it. Or, at least,
appeared to do so. Robert
said, “it is a fine work, Frederick,
though not of the same quality
as, for example, your E-flat major
Nocturne.”
Clara said nothing. This hurt
most of all. She tried to smile,
but it was only out of
courtesy.
Johannes, that ass of a boy,
played his new Intermezzo.
It was transcendent. I told him
so, though Robert and Clara
had already showered him
with praise.
I placed my little nocturne
in the drawer. I shall not
publish it, or play it again.
If I can compose no better than
this, if I cannot judge what is
art, I should put down my pen.
Why should my piano speak,
when there is no one to hear its song?
as a child I loved the dark
not even to be a contrarian
my friends all harbored nightlights
or some stupid as seen on tv glow in the dark toy
but I remember kicking and screaming (in a good way)
invisibly of course in the dark
because no one could see
me
and i could be less than perfect
I could be the golden child that didn’t sparkle in the shadows
the movie theater lights would dim
and even the bright screen couldn’t phase me
I’d scatter popcorn kernels between the cracks of my seat
and giggle too loudly as if no one could hear me
but then the lights came back
those goddamn lights
to show the world
the mess under my seat
the ones oh so visible once the chair flips up
it was like my baggage my trauma
in greasy over dyed yellow
accompanying deep red carpet
what is worse is that I didn’t have to clean it
I was too young for responsibility
now it has been a year since I’ve been to the movies
and the sun sets later in the day
so you can see my worries on my face
on my legs
for forbidden lovers to trace
and I am still here
waiting for the comfort of the dark
the only place I blend in
the only place I seldom cover up
the place where I am me
and my body is mine
for me to feel
and keep
Uneasy Read
The errata tag, my bookmark,
Startles when it falls
From pages marked
To read again.
As if to flick a warning ,
Don’t take words to heart.
Lean not on strangers’
Casual advice or hint.
Strengths should grow
On one’s own knowing .
lean stones here.
without stones-
she will take
limbs piled
light/heavy
down around her
sisters base.
her sister meets
the soil
by way
of greening-
gold is gone.
beneath her green-
her war is
daily waged.
what an art to
put it together
in an era of
badly made stuff.
i wish i could choose
a shoe same way
i chose a love:
buy-me-once
