a poem referencing a shared experience with my daughter...
my feet in socks are propped up with the cat,
and both of us are swept in by a story
that either one could quote chapter and verse.
Here with our hearts disarmed by ardent heroes,
I guess the oboe stealing in begins
the liquid orchestration, sotto voce,
that pays us back each time the tale replays.
It's rather like a game we play together,
revisiting the stories or the songs
where we are sure the ache will be renewed:
some loss of infant paradise remembered.
I guess there must be hidden in the score
motifs that call for instruments aquatic,
for something strums my brain below a threshold
where manly bravery might hold it back.
As Anne and Gil hold hands over the water,
my face begins to shimmer like the lake;
and my daughter spies the tracks before I wipe
them, smiling too at what the music does.
Poetry by Mark Aikins
Read 646 times
Written on 2006-12-29 at 20:46
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What the Music Does
Her golden hair is strewn back on the couch,my feet in socks are propped up with the cat,
and both of us are swept in by a story
that either one could quote chapter and verse.
Here with our hearts disarmed by ardent heroes,
I guess the oboe stealing in begins
the liquid orchestration, sotto voce,
that pays us back each time the tale replays.
It's rather like a game we play together,
revisiting the stories or the songs
where we are sure the ache will be renewed:
some loss of infant paradise remembered.
I guess there must be hidden in the score
motifs that call for instruments aquatic,
for something strums my brain below a threshold
where manly bravery might hold it back.
As Anne and Gil hold hands over the water,
my face begins to shimmer like the lake;
and my daughter spies the tracks before I wipe
them, smiling too at what the music does.
Poetry by Mark Aikins
Read 646 times
Written on 2006-12-29 at 20:46
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Rob Graber |
