Monday, September 25, 2006

Touched by genius

I’m on the floor,
asleep under the piano once more,
rapt in sheets of sound.

Poised on the stage,
sax in hand,
clean off the page.

It can’t start again.
I tell myself and then
the music rips the walls apart.

Where did that note come from?
Whose scream of anguish or ecstasy
came floating into the dream

on a river of tears,
on a bed of thorns,
scraped out of metal
on a bed of petals,
at the moment I was born.

Can’t keep my wings still.
Is this what the Red Kite feels
tilting with air?

The dolphin,
as it leaps sunwards?
Explosions everywhere,

unearthly sensation,
unexpected destination.

I’m on the floor, under the piano.
You might think I’m dead,
but there’s music swirling in my head.

Another great night in the company of Gilad and friends, playing in a tango ensemble called Tangents. Warning - Art Fishel is coming your way soon!

1 comment:

  1. Reads like a song. Especially liked the scene at the beginning -- "under the piano" -- where the poem returns to in the end.

    And the second stanza... loved it the most. ^_^