Aug 17, 2015
Mixin’ and Recordin’ Monthiversaries!
Just finished a full draft of the vocals for “The Wayside.” Now to put on earphones to listen to it as I sing the instrumentals!
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Mixin’ and Recordin’ Monthiversaries!
Just finished a full draft of the vocals for “The Wayside.” Now to put on earphones to listen to it as I sing the instrumentals!
Jehanon to Joan Keating, December 9, 2014: “Clingy” http://audioboom.com/boos/2716358-jehanon-to-joan-keating-december-9-2014-clingy
Originally published Dec. 9, 2014, submission by jehanon several days earlier.
I have days where nothing but sonnets will do, but other days are ballad meter days.
My Browning days are great, though; I make up new verse forms and dig my ingenuity.
Those are days when I have less self loathing. Grooviolios!
I got a number of nice lines done on the train commute. Time to show Shakespeare and Wordsworth some lovin'!
WHOO, a new verse form, GO ME too. Like a verse of a sonnet and then the ending heroic couplet. NEATO.
VILLANELLE: Unprepared
It came to me when I was unprepared. A madness overtook me, and I fell. My old life’s gone. I wish it had been spared.
What joy I felt, at first, to think he cared! Elation! Oh, I felt my bosom swell. It came to me when I was unprepared.
He seemed so sweet, and I so long had bared My inner heart to him. How could I tell? My old life’s gone. I wish it had been spared.
It seems so rash a waste. I wish I’d fared Much better. I was safer in my shell… It came to me when I was unprepared.
He loved me not; my meat from bone he pared Till I was dead. In lonely grave I dwell: My old life’s gone. I wish it had been spared.
Ah, woe! I gave my all to him, declared My soul was his. He sent me straight to hell. It came to me when I was unprepared.
My old life’s gone. I wish it had been spared.
A Perfect Triangle (For thebardisapoet)
The triangle’s a simple shape; It’s simple, too, to play. It has no valves, no reeds or keys, Or visual display.
There is a string, a bit of cord: You hold it in one hand; In other hand, a metal rod. At Maestro’s mute command,
You strike the triangle. It sounds With a metallic ding, And that is all you need to know, If triangle’s your thing.
My friend was fuming, years ago. I asked, “What’s on your mind?” He told me, “The conductor’s mad! “Did you hear? He’s assigned
"The triangle to me. How rude! “A four-year-old could play it! “A puny instrument! Thinks he, I’ve “No talent? Why not say it?
"I’ve years of training, Joan!" he cried. “I know I’ve been insulted. “I’ll bet he just dislikes my face… “And this thing has resulted.”
He held aloft his shameful shape. “A child’s toy!” he grieved. I tried to comfort him, but he Was sure he’d been deceived.
He’d heard the “Phil” would bring rewards And prestige to his name, But now, it seemed, he’d been despised: No honor; only shame
Would be his lot. He said good night, And left in his disgrace. We didn’t meet again for weeks. Then, in a public place,
I saw the concert’s poster, and I wondered if the fellow Had quit the orchestra, enraged. Behind me, I heard, “Hello!
"I hope you can attend tonight. “It’s good to see you, pal.” And there he was, all shining bright. I dared not ask him, “Shall
"I see you playing harpsichord, “Or xylophone, or horn?” Of course, I said I’d come, But thought, “What could transform
"My surly friend in such a way?" Though pleased that he had changed. I hurried home, myself, to change, Prepared for something strange.
When, in the auditorium, The lights came up on stage, I saw him and his triangle. Eyes bright, he turned the page.
The Maestro raised his arms and gave The upbeat. They commenced; The music shone. My friend sat still. I waited, shoulders tensed.
All glorious the sound came forth. My friend sat, eyes on score, And counted rests; and his excitement Blazed: there will be more!
The overture’s crescendo rose; The music leaped and swelled. My friend was waiting, silently. The climax! Breaths were held.
Oh! All the players’ scores displayed A curling quarter-rest. The Maestro gave his cue; on high, A clear, high, pure tone blessed
All beings present. One last chord Resounded, lusty cry! The triangle rang out. My friend Stood tall, with head held high.
Then, afterwards, my friend embraced me. Jubilant, he bounced. I grinned, “What happened, Stetson? “I thought you had long renounced
“That instrument!” He shook his head. “I had it wrong, Joan dear. “The triangle sounds perfect, when “The time is right. So clear,
“The earth, the stars, the heavens seemed “To glisten, when I played. “My triangle completes the piece; “All sorrow fled, afraid.”
“So you’re content? The Maestro’s not “Displeased with you?” “No, we’re fine. “Which instrument I play’s all one; “I know there’ll come a time
“That’s right for me, and when it comes, “I’ll do my best—not just “To glorify myself; the entire “Orchestra’s placed trust
“All in each other. We each have “Our special part to play, “And in cooperation, we “Succeed and save the day.”
My friend’s contentment with his lot Impressed me. Now I see, I have my part to play, as well. Yes! There is a place for me.
I need not wish that I could change; I’m right, now, for this passage. But if I do change, I’ll still fit A new seat: that’s the message.
~~~~
Joan Keating October 5, 2014
This sonnet sequence is hard to write: very personal, about painful memories and the lingering fear of ghosts of my past. But I owe it to jehanon to come clean here.
