Cleaning house, poetically speaking, by knocking the sacred cello trope off its perch, even if only temporarilly, to scrub the grime at the base, before putting it back
in place
I rarely listen to the cello
although Bach wrote Sonatas for it
in sonorous trebling femur vibrations
like vapors escaping from a grimy morgue—
whose depressing visions creep along
hardened clay floors
invoking gloomy old woman
crying in imprisoned despair—
across forgotten dream fragments
clacking, like resonating
Polynesian long-boat oars
from beach-washed distances
tethering to the remembered sound
of that Gerald Sterne poem
with its spatialized musical tones
that hang in the back of the mind—
cellos emanating like smog-gassed foreign cities
of anonymous silver spires
attached to silver buildings
rising like bone cancer
from fear-soaked shores
in coal-dust evenings—
where remote sleeping giants
whose forgotton identities imprinted in dreams
dissipate and awaken instead
cursing the ethereal sound
of Sterne, Bach and his cello
as I promise myself
next time
to sleep in silence.
JZRothstein 11/12/2013
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 526 times
Written on 2013-11-13 at 20:16
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
in place
Cello
CelloI rarely listen to the cello
although Bach wrote Sonatas for it
in sonorous trebling femur vibrations
like vapors escaping from a grimy morgue—
whose depressing visions creep along
hardened clay floors
invoking gloomy old woman
crying in imprisoned despair—
across forgotten dream fragments
clacking, like resonating
Polynesian long-boat oars
from beach-washed distances
tethering to the remembered sound
of that Gerald Sterne poem
with its spatialized musical tones
that hang in the back of the mind—
cellos emanating like smog-gassed foreign cities
of anonymous silver spires
attached to silver buildings
rising like bone cancer
from fear-soaked shores
in coal-dust evenings—
where remote sleeping giants
whose forgotton identities imprinted in dreams
dissipate and awaken instead
cursing the ethereal sound
of Sterne, Bach and his cello
as I promise myself
next time
to sleep in silence.
JZRothstein 11/12/2013
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 526 times
Written on 2013-11-13 at 20:16
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
