Alla Turca, A Love Affair With Mozart

Tags

, , , ,

About playing it wrong: each incorrect move you integrate takes ten times the amount of practice to unlearn.  

For Mozart,

Whose music is to the fingers,

Like tongue-twisters to the tongue,

If you’ll accept his offer to dance,

You must learn the steps.

Teach yourself to surrender

As he leads you

From andante to allegretto,

Pushing you away,

Pulling you back to him,

Twirling you round and round

Until you’re dizzy;

You must unlearn everything,

Even walking,

In order to dance.

You’ll wonder if you can,

If it’s possible,

But you’ll love his way,

And want it.

After a time,

You’ll be ready to quit

But do two moves,

Simultaneously,

Then a string of moves,

Then another string.

And finally, believe you’re learning.

You’ll want to dance more, and more,

To prove it to him,

And yourself.

So, you’ll dance

‘Til you’re exhausted,

And laughing,

And, so thoroughly in love,

The only thing you can do after

Is relax in your favorite chair,

Light a cigar,

Watch the day drift by

In snow,

and the memory of song.

A Dead Baby

Tags

, , ,

He said he killed his baby,

His own thirteen month old boy.

Of course, it was an accident

And, he tries to say,

His faith has helped him,

Though he’s clearly avoiding my eyes.

I say it’s our worst fear

And how many times it almost happened:

My own baby accidentally left in a hot car,

My own child run-away down a busy road.

So close, and yet, mine still live.

There but for the Grace of God, I say.

And, I don’t understand

Why people choose to bring sorrow

Into a world where sorrow finds them.

We’re all just a tick away from tragedy.

He agrees, says he’s had enough

These last three years of mourning.

There’ll never be a day he doesn’t see

His child run-over.

There’ll never be a day he doesn’t want

Another chance to stop the car

He says, there must be a reason.

For him, I surely hope there is,

And so, I agree.

Second Wife

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

68093883_130308442077

I look for her in the mirror.

How many times have I seen

Alice in black and white:

Spectacles perched above her nose,

Blonde hair pulled back,

Features as tiny as her waist.

The simple lace wedding dress

Gathers tightly there—

Think bound

Think trapped.

When she died, her stepchildren

Wanted to tear it apart for fabric,

But somehow it floated down to us

On wings as fragile as dead butterfly’s,

Or old bones in Cochise sand.

I don’t see Alice Martha Goldie,

His young English bride,

Not in my eyes, my hair,

Nose, cheeks, or chin,

Not even the waist,

In only this:

Second wife,

A woman in an unmarked grave,

Orphans, and a wedding dress

As thin as air.

alice martha goldie wedding dress from 1910

Winter-Driven Gods

Tags

, , ,

Who deserves the gold of the stripped willow,

Or the absolute stillness of fog upon snow?

Who deserves the overhead flight of geese,

The way their honking helps spirit take flight?

Who deserves to be the one not killed

In the five car wreck on I-90 just yesterday,

The first day of the first real storm we’ve had?

I don’t understand why I was able to run

Heat-drenched and naked

Into the snow under stars,

Wave my arms and legs through powder

Flying like a ground-driven angel

Sent by some winter-driven god.

We plunged back into the tub,

Passed happy dogs wagging tails,

Caught up in the joy of seeing humans

Act like they would, were they human,

We felt the glorious sting and stab

Of hot water upon closed pores,

a calculated game,

To revel in being alive, to pretend,

For a moment, we control it.

It’s a curious thing, grace,

Every second we breathe

Our bodies are bathed in it.

I accept

Tags

,

The way the day opens itself

Promising mystery

I think I’ll accept

Live up to my end of the thing

Pick it up and huck it

Over and over and over

Until we’re fully spent,

It and I,

Until my arms can’t reach

Above my head and the skin

Of my fingers is cracked

or blistered, or both,

And all of it,

All of it

Mine forever

Not yours, not yours,

Not  yours, and especially,

Not yours.

Witch Grass

Tags

Stems reach up

Like a witch’s broom,

Grow hair

Like a witch’s chin:

Hair, scutch, twitch,

quake, cough grass.

In June, I picked a blade

Swished it under your chin—

Tickle grass,

Soft as skin.

Soon after,

Its bristly panicle:

Brittle branches

Easily broken,

Carrying weed seed,

Devil’s grass,

Thousands of acres,

Thousands of miles—

As far as the devil.

Tumble and panic grass

Flitters and flies

To where you are,

To where I am,

Through my gates,

Through my walls,

Witch

Grass.

What is weed,

What is not weed,

One word.

One Bit of Poetry: I am One

Tags

, , , ,

I am One.

I am what one is

And, what one is not.

One of us is wrong, or

Both of us are right

About the one thing.

One last time:

I am not yours,

You are not mine,

Though we will die

Trying to prove it.

Can I help it feels right

To think I’m one with him,

The momentary shared skin,

Then the frightening birth away.

Someone said we were halved

Long ago, halved,

And we are always seeking.

I am what one is,

And, what one is not,

Though I will die

Trying to prove it.