Does it matter you hold a cello?The New York Times omits a word. Does it matter you use grammar?Understood is understood. Does it matter you drop a bomb?The rally cry of hate is heard. Does it matter I read the news?My ultimate end is quite assured.
He composed the piece for violabecauselike every composerwho ever composed a piece for viola,he was in love with a violist. I wonder if she knowswhat she createdas his muse. If she celebrates,Or sinks inside herself,when she hears the low C sing. The unmoved moverwith cause of attractionextracting beautyfrom the mind of the manwho remembers her…
Full of joy and laughter and loveMy parents gave me few choresNo ultimatumsI never was groundedOr punishedI learned to criticize myself for every flawAnd correct others creating boundariesWhere I had none. My mother was a musicianA concert harpist who played in four symphoniesOf south LouisianaAnd weddings on most weekendsShe played nearly 10,000 weddings in 40…
The first thing I learned about the violinWas to move my bow with the other bowsNot to position my hands, or count the tempoBut that the dance of the bow on the stringsAnd the look of the group mattered moreThan the sounds we produced.Making a note, and moving my bowI sounded like a dying catScratching…
"The happiness of a tree that clings to its roots” wrote Nietzsche in 1873A hundred years before I was bornWhen the roots I would cling to were being formed. Let us not cling to the past that our foremothers wrought with iron and wood as they cut down the trees to build cabins that became a neighborhood. Let us not cling, but…
Poets are thinkersMaking an argument For the story they see,Or the world as it should be. Angry, an optimistDisappointed, believerDescribing her hopes, scenesAnd all of her dreams.
You like to be cleanBut you get dirty without apologyOr resentmentYou smell when you’ve been workingOf sweat and grease and trashAnd sticky icky gooAnd juice combined with brothNot in a recipe but on your skin aloneA smell that’s nowhere elseBut on youAnd on me when you touch meThe way I smell as you walk to…
Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched.
Walking barefoot In the house that I loved, I cut my foot on a nail sticking out of a board. I got infected when it hurt and even though I soaked it in Epsom salts. I finally I recovered. I got a hammer, and I tried to hammer the nail in the board tries on…
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