Just stop listening In any musical piece All goes haywire
Worry about if You will play the wrong note and You’re more likely to
Practice sloppily While expecting perfection You will surely fail
Recipe for Musical Success
Always listening To the language of music Letting it move you
Taking care as to The intention of each note Tone has living soul
Practice reachfully With mindful repetition One step at a time
NaPoWriMo Day 21. The prompt was “try your hand at writing your own poem in which something that normally unfolds in a set and well understood way — like a baseball game or dance recital – goes haywire, but is described as if it is all very normal.” I decided to write about both the haywire option and its antithesis. I may hang these on my music room wall! My daughter added a last stanza to the Recipe for Success:
Play it carefully Take your time to get it right Like my mother says
There’s one part of my song Where the notes are more blue It’s the part where I sing Of my longing for you And when the mockingbird comes to my window I’ll be singing that tune and remembering you
For your love is so sweet and your kisses divine There is no other love that I’ll ever find When you hold me close and whisper my name There’s no person on earth who could love me the same
But there’s one part of my song Where the notes are more blue It’s the part where I sing Of my longing for you And when the mockingbird comes to my window I’ll be singing that tune and waiting for you
Winters will melt and the summers soon fade When our songs have all been sung and the notes all been played Then I’ll listen and wait for the mockingbird’s song When he comes to my window I’ll be singing along
There’s one part of my song Where the notes are more blue It’s the part where I sing Of my longing for you And when the mockingbird comes to my window I’ll be singing that tune and remembering you
The echo chamber of my head is so busy that I don’t generally hear the sounds of my inner body, until I at last lie still. And then my heartbeat awakens, the woosh of my breath becomes audible. I hear the movement of my tongue and my teeth in my mouth. My stomach gurgles. My ears discover the hum of my body working, its fleshy gears turning. My thoughts stop speaking in words and instead lean into the language of rhythm. I listen to hear my cells singing in chorus.
It has been quite a week. I have been writing poems, occasionally somewhat on prompt. I just haven’t had it in me to sit down and post anything. So here I am catching up, or perhaps right on time.
4/8 At my mammogram Jane Austen secured my clothes In the changing room
Her picture tucked in a clear sleeve on the key chain breasts squished in plastic
4/9 I find it hard to write a poem At the moments when I haven’t been flung to get paper and pen To discipline myself into crafting inspiration is a bit of a heavy lift Yet, when I do the lifting Looking under stones that seem like endless, mundane words
Do you know how it feels to be flung To the drawer where you keep your notebook and pen For the sake of writing those very words?
Do you know how it feels to think you should really Fly to the drawer where you keep your notebook and pen But don’t and then forget the words later?
What about that song that you wake up humming Or the dream you really don’t want to forget? I don’t recall my dreams last night.
I go through phases of words on the page, Waking up recalling dream Writing whatever on a page in hopes that tomorrow I will be flung to my drawer Wherein lies the pen and paper for words that I don’t want to let slip away.
I With suki the cat by my side Little monk sits at the clavier Discussing major and minor keys with her teacher
I smell of rich soaked earth, Dank and earthy, reminiscent of a farm Finger numbers are announced and “relax your wrist”
I consider stepping outside, resolving that my quiet presence behind my screen is unobtrusive enough “That’s right, curve your hand. 2! One more time…”
She begins to speak on the piano i, iv, V7, i “Can I hear Hanon next time? Let me hear Amazing Grace.”
The fan blows, lawnmowers hum outside The use of the pedal is discussed Familiar and plodding, chords and melody
When we’ve been here 10,000 years Bright shining as the sun. Then the soft then rising, grasping at the note
Now with the pedal, “heel on the floor” Resonance rings promise of the future I look at her and see her focus, respond, breathe, and begin
IV Nkosikazi slows in her chariot She has been here 10,000 years Destined for this moment
She rises slowly and rides Hanging on the ascending IV chord The sage stands behind her
Hold it down good, sit tall on your chariot She says, you’ve prepared for this moment If you need to take a little time here you can.
Nkosikazi approaches her target She lifts her hands and hits Then with humility turns to her teacher
4/12 The trees have eyes in all their many cells The ones who know me best are in my backyard right now. They see me daily. I lay in the hammock among them. I wonder if the trees in the back grove of my childhood home are still there Swamp maples that my dad cursed for their tendency to drop branches There was a whole grove of them in the “way back” of our yard If they are still there, would they know me if I walked among them?
4/14 Home earlier than usual - well a bit Dinner is cooking to the whistling of a familiar motif Conversation is helping to turn the wheels of dinner prep and cleanup Today was a day. I felt strong and vulnerable. I felt how I wear my cape You know, Superwoman. Yeah, that cape
She flies in. She still looks all put together despite the wind Not a hair out of place.
Golden dripping from the bucket Turned on its side. Catch it with your finger as you Lift the bucket and the last velvet drop Slowly beads up around the spout. Close your eyes as you Bring your finger to your lips. Taste summer sun glisten on your tongue And sizzle at the back of your throat.
Small Burdens 