Thoughts on the arts
ONE FOR THE AUDIENCE
More credit should be given
To brooders, to mother hens.
Surely the gates of heaven
Must be open to them
Whose warm breasts shepherd the young.
And those should be commended
To whom the song is sung,
Who put their hands together
And give their welcome tongue.
Appreciation is due
To all receptive ears,
The openhearted who
Say yes to balladeers
And sponsor new careers.
MUSIC HATH CHARMS
(Inspired by the British boys’ choir Libra)
Making music is among
The least pernicious things
We humans know how to achieve.
Children’s voices raised in song
Touch our hearts with melody,
Rid us of self-centered sophistry,
Soothe our savage propensities,
Angelicize our bestiality.
While we sing we feel no greed.
No self loathing possesses us.
Conniving envy passes us by.
With ears attuned to harmony,
We open ourselves to beauty.
There’s love-light in our eyes.
THE ART OF THE POEM
Oh I could probably pen
The enigmatic page:
“In the shattered mirror
At the window I see crows…”
Op Art is all the rage.
As every critic knows,
Poetry in plain style
Is rather juvenile.
But I would sooner share
The loon song on the lake
Or a stand of birches,
One moment that may make
Its mark on the sands of time
In rhythm and in rhyme.
ON A SUMMER EVENING
Atop the Exeter town hall
Our Lady of Justice
Back-lighted by sunset
Holds high her scales
And weighs the brassy
Marching strains
Of the Exeter town band
As we in our lawn chairs
Watch the frisking children
And smell the popcorn.
A pair of Mexican Hairless
Dogs parade by.
The band segues
Into a medley of waltzes.
THOUGHTS IN THE NEWFIELDS WORD BARN
At Open Mikes
The spoken word
Is often heard, but
What of the unspoken word
The forgotten word
The belated word
The word of advice
The word of wisdom
The word of caution
In the Beginning
Was the Word.
Who will have
The last word?
Who will hear
Our last word?
DANCE TIME
There’s a time for Ring Around the Rosy,
Musical chairs and Farmer in the Dell,
And a time for jitterbug, electro-pop,
Disco, Eurobeat, New Wave as well.
And then we do the wedding march and waltz,
Virginia Reel and polka and all that
Or mambo, samba, tango, lindy et al.
Before the final shuffle with the walker.
So when the caller hails you to the dance floor
Kick up your heels and swing your partner round.
Promenade and bow and dos si dos.
Make the most of your time on the ground
Before the lights begin to turn down low,
The Exit sign above the door to glow.
YOUNG MUSICIANS
Their slender fingers ripple over the keys.
Their bows stroke the strings with graceful ease.
Over complex scores their ungrayed heads are bent.
Their unlined brows furrow with grave intent.
Mini-skirted or tie-shirted, they create
Music we oldsters gratefully appreciate.
This tender talent so pleasing to our ears
We know will ripen richly in coming years.
THE SOUND OF POETRY
(Inspired by the Concord Inn Open Mike Program)
A song is meant to be sung.
A poem is meant to be said:
Here are the ways I’ve gone,
Here are the thoughts I’ve had.
Vignettes along the road,
Bits of scenes remembered,
Sightings from my window:
A poem is meant to be read.
Music of assonant words
Strung like the notes of a bird,
Joined in a measured tread:
A poem is meant to be heard.
(October, 2014)
FIREWORKS
(On being asked what is the process of writing a poem)
You’ve seen the Grand Finale
Start with a single spark
After which the sky goes dark.
The pause feels interminable.
And then another twinkle,
Faint but unmistakable.
The wait becomes more bearable:
The pattern is predictable.
A snapping, crackling crescendo
Of stuttering gunfire sends
Out strands of blinding light,
Illuminates the looming night.
Likewise can a poem be born:
One spark ignites the dawn.
(January 4, 2014)
ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET
Sarah, I was pleased to meet your snowman.
He reminded me of others I have known
And other precious moments with grandparents
Or play with childhood friends who’ve long been gone.
We’re riding high speed trains into the future.
We know we want these memories to last.
But snapping blurry pictures can be futile.
A poem can be a postcard from the past.
So if and when your train stops at a station,
Put down your I phone, take a good long look.
Breathe in the scene, then write an encryptation
To be decoded in your memory book.
DISSONANCE
You can’t hear the music in my headphones.
We’re wired up to different frequencies.
You jog to Bach, I to The Grateful Dead.
It’s Lohengrin for you and Julio for me.
When we dance it’s hard to keep in step.
You dip and turn to waltzes from Vienna.
I rock with The Beetles’ antic drums.
No wonder we tread on each other’s feet.
Chording is difficult in counterpoint while
Humming a tune with Peter, Paul and Mary.
Why don’t we start exchanging our cassettes?
Then we might sing along in harmony.