Sunday, May 8, 2011

Poem While Listening to Sergei Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3 1st Movement

It begins, the light shines through the window.
Stronger still, she holds me and reverberates my song.
I can feel the life now, at the root of her tongue.
The harvest is quick. No one remembers my name.
She calls out to me and I do not call out to her,
it is useless and sad against the bark of the tree.
The mechanism of love rings truth to bathe in.
Our passion (though hidden) is naked before God.
Yeses and noes play a seesaw of formation.
Little by little, little by little: acquiesce.
The spring has come and love come undone,
this is the act of creation: acquiescence.
The mouse finds its home, the mouse finds it home.
The mouse does not find its home. I am home.
Running slowly downstairs uncovers nothing.
Running quickly upstairs shows, thankfully, nothing.
I am a rabbit of melancholy. She is the ocean.
Deeper now, deeper still, the legs of a chair.
Rustic winds and the underlining forgotten metaphor.
Wrestling with or against the ebbing tides,
I am an overturned apostrophe.
She steals glances of my broad smile.
There is quiet now, the light still shines through the window.
It started with a pace and more than halfway through it continues.
There is a dance we are reconstructing, an old dance
of placid grass in the rain. I am home.
She hums the same tune she has hummed for years.
I listen apprehensively, making notes here or there.
It reminds me of jazz, but I do not dare mention it.
My eyelids are heavy now, but my heart beats strong.
She tries to tickle me. I am not ticklish,
but I pretend to be because it brings her delight.
There is another swell, then movement again.
Then silence.

Creative Commons License
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

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