Joyce also wears the hat of a musician and singer, when she is not writing. An interesting poem where the writer-poet and the musician-singer meet.
The world’s five greatest
composers were beating their
clean fingernails in grammatical
order at the young musician
who plays the triangle and
comes from one of Pirandello’s sulfur permeated towns
and the blue haired singer who
waits for him after every performance
and as the rhythm of the orchestra
moves towards the wallpaper
on his grandfather’s porch,
the small grey house where
the blue haired singer
practices is being slowly
filled with a new beat,
and one morning they decide
we must buy some music for
our bed and that morning
the admirals all put on their
sunglasses and that evening
the light iron sound of the
triangle could suddenly be felt
though never again was it heard.
II
they met a sprawling nude who
hurriedly dressed in the clothes
of the new
abstract sound of
electrical church bells
and joined the unconscious
political history of each
new hardheaded dance
much later these three were to encounter
audiences of screaming physicians
pursuing them with a noise to
make bartenders cry.
III
right now historians in lavender
shirts are exploring
the geography of soul as
music seeps from the top drawers
of bureaus encasing the toilet
articles of a million
potentially unemployed parachutists.
©Joyce Yarrow
Pix from Net.
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