Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Public Television (poem)

(Easter Sunday 1998)

Alone in the dark room,
in the slanted light of the TV,
I cup my breast and sigh.

Prayers of Yo-Yo Ma
fall in memorium,
in honeyed colored
chords across the death
mask of his father.

Cello talk so steeped in Bach
that only dogs’ ears
& the dead can comprehend.

A dancer whirls in candlelight.

My own instrument
vibrates, clumsy & untuned,
like an armoire
of burled beech with frets.
The resined strings taut with grief
in my own fugue of melancholy.

The Kabuki dancer is a man,
dressed in women’s silk,
long pigtailed hair, crimson
mouth pursed in mock piety.

I want to climb into his empty
britches, reclaim my losses
in the name of Art,
wail like an alto sax
in a ceremony of truth.


No comments:

Post a Comment