Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Current Project

Began a new poem recently to fit into the Quintet series. The full collection of poems consists of five voices, each interior monologue based off one of the band members: sax, upright bass, drums, piano, voice. In the current verse, the solo vocalist is the only female of the group. Her thoughts are more formulaic than the other members—in my logic, she thinks in structured lyrics. In this case I fell into use of the haiku formula, 5-7-5 syllable rule. I liked how the syllable count fractures my typical long lines— likewise, the appearance of the numbered stanzas encourage a further halting rythym to be placed on the full work.

And then too, I like how her story formed in my head to begin with—she echoes my own personal experiences slightly: the loss of my eighteen year old brother for example—

Debating at the moment if the repitition between 5 and 6 work muscially... or clash with a lack of harmony. In other words, does the discord sound intentional or forced?



The Falling:
vocalist solo
1
—and that’s all it takes,
(even mid-song) one slight glance
across a small room.
2
Or even mid-phrase.
Mid-word. And then the falling
into vertigo.
3
As casual as
slipping into mama’s dress,
stepping out to dance.
4
Nights of Latin jazz,
a time when I’d wear music
as a second skin—
5
all past sensations
returning from just one quick
glance of a stranger—
6
It is just too much—
when a full stranger mirrors
a past memory,
7
reflecting the face
of my brother: his earring,
his stance and movements,
8
a gentle haunting,
which clings, even years later,
as if time derailed,
9
as if this city
transposed itself to somewhere
else—to fractured scenes
10
stolen from the past,
before the epiphanies
or experience,
11
before changed notions
of self took hold, unfolding
paper memory.
12
His attention falls
elsewhere, seeking out someone
in this small grey room.
13
I close my dark eyes.
Step further into myself.
Acknowledge the past.
14
Across the tables,
the boy’s dragonfly tattoo
trembles, as he leaves.

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