November, you are the urn of the seasons,
All other months are ash inside you–
Body without light, spirit-haunted.
Our waking hours
Resemble more a rainy dream,
Our dreaming, the mist of another life.
I hear an oboe in November,
An oboe drifting through the woods,
Accompanied by strings.
Are not those cellos and violins
Our desires dying even as they desire more life?
From the river a freighter’s foghorn
Throbs in the night.
The rumbling of a distant train
Beats drum rolls for the dead of November.
I dream them in gray.
Along the river’s mist I see the dead,
And then I see her
Who was once naked beside me.
How ashen her beautiful face,
How dead those eyes I knew.
She holds out a cold hand.
I step through to the other side.
Last night my friend’s twin girls sang in my house, with my daughter on piano and two of her friends from orchestra on cello and violin. They were rehearsing for a wedding– everything from Bach to Bocelli. All I can say is what lovely music the guests will enjoy. All I can say is what a fine house we have built out of poetry, music and art.
A country doctor commencing on a cure
A chiropractor stretching the spine of his patient
An ornithologist listening for a particular bird
The dance of lonely awkward people
Children in a schoolyard making friends
Workers striking synchronous hammers
Mice euthanized in a whirlpool of squeals
Boxers wanting to lose the fight they’re winning
The glass of winter dawn shattering
Doors opening on the ringing of time
An avalanche burying the mountainside
A teardrop doing somersaults
Bells learning to cooperate in limited space
The concentration of a prisoner
Chiseling into a wall of silence
A jeweler cutting facets of pure sound
A strongbox opening on a combination that keeps locking it
At the sickbed of romance
The famous tenor split his pants,
The bodice of the soprano burst,
Letting air out of her aria first…
Tonight seven cell phones,
Twelve bleepers, sixteen coughs,
Forty yawns and eleven sneezes,
Accompanied by gassy breezes,
Joined the hissing, boos and jeers
Amid the music of the spheres.
When the mezzo-soprano began to trill,
Half the mezzanine took ill;
And the basso singing solo
Fell flat on his profondo.
Tonight the chorus was in chaos
When the andante lost its pathos
And the allegro lagged along
Far behind both act and song.
Even the conductor was confused
When the composer left bemused,
And the librettist wrote a letter:
“The opera could not be better—
Save for the flautist blowing Rigoletto,
Found toying with his piccoletto.”
The practice area is like an orchard of sound
Where you pick notes as they ripen
And those that fall seed the ground.
You can harvest grapes from this vine
That grows along the staff of time
Following the sun into drums of wine.
The pianos seem near and far
Like conversations behind doors
Or rain on the roof of your car.
The practice area is a paradise
Where even angels clash
And beauty is soundly imprecise.
Please listen to the children play,
Their music is so unaffected
You’ll hear the origins of rhapsody.