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POETRY
Here are a few poems I
recently submitted to the CBC Literary Awards competition. All three deal
with certain aspects of music - the audience, the creation, the
performance. Enjoy!
FINAL
MOVEMENT
Here we
are fanfare blaring
bows
racing over strings at speeds that would evoke flames
signalling
that after one hour and fifty minutes of glorious music-making
the
final piece of the evening
the
grand symphony
is almost over.
We will
go on like this
with
standard harmonic structure and clichéd cadences
loosely
echoing themes from earlier in the work
for
approximately two minutes
until…
we
suddenly become soft and melancholy
for
no apparent programmatic reason.
It
just seems like the thing to do:
It
is the way of every final movement.
With
the most tear-inducing of melodies
played
by our ever-popular string section,
reminding
you of some fabric softener commercial,
we
lull you into a state of anaesthetic bliss for another two minutes,
guiding you to the edge of slumber
until…
WE MUST
BLARE AGAIN
MORE
FANFARE, MORE POMP
YOU’RE
AWAKE NOW AREN’T YOU?
WHAT HAS
CHANGED? WE DON’T KNOW
DO THESE
ERRATIC JUXTAPOSITIONS REFLECT LIFE IN ANY WAY?
DO YOU
OFTEN FIND YOURSELF COMATOSE ONE MOMENT
AND IN A
STATE OF RAUCOUS CELEBRATION THE NEXT
WITH NO
INTERMEDIATE REVVING-UP PERIOD?
LIKELY
NOT… BUT IT IS THE WAY OF ALL FINAL MOVEMENTS.
NOW, YOU
THINK, IT MUST ACTUALLY BE ENDING
YOU SEE
THE HAIRS FRANTICALLY SEPARATING FROM THE BOWS
DO YOU
DETECT A QUIVERING IN THE BRASS?
THEIR LIPS
MUST BE WEARING OUT
YOU WONDER
IF WE CAN CONTINUE MUCH LONGER
WITHOUT
COMPLETE COLLAPSE?
YOU
EMBRACE YOUR COAT IN YOUR LAP LIKE A PILLOW
VISIONS OF
YOUR BED WITH ITS COZY PLUSH COMFORTER
ARE
BEGINNING TO ENTER YOUR MIND
SURELY THE
PERFORMANCE IS AT ITS POINT OF CULMINATION
BUT OF
COURSE YOU ARE WRONG
BECAUSE…
we
will suddenly grow still and contemplative again,
for
no apparent programmatic reason.
No,
you think, it isn’t from a commercial.
It’s
from that movie you watched last night.
Or
tried to watch.
It
was too utterly depressing
and
you had to turn to the Comedy Channel half way through.
You
wish you were watching the Comedy Channel now.
You
are becoming annoyed as we continue to play with your emotions
like
a puppeteer with a marionette.
To
get up now would be rude
but
you are beginning to wonder how long this will go on.
You
have already promised yourself that you will not stay
for
the four rounds of standing ovations that are sure to follow
as
you are not prepared to contend with the rush of vehicles
attempting
to exit the parking lot.
Your
thigh muscles are beginning to atrophy.
Your
legs ache and you are wishing you could stretch them out
across
the top of the seat in front of you
And
you would if there were not a head in the way.
Would
he really mind if you took off your shoes
and
didn’t press down too hard?
But
then…
ONCE
MORE WE EXUBERATE, OUR LOUDEST YET
THE
BRASS IS DEAFENING
THE
PICCOLO PIERCES YOUR EARDRUMS
WE ARE
ENTERING A STATE OF UTTER SONIC CHAOS
WILL
THE THIRD TIME BE A CHARM?
YOU HAVE
NEVER HEARD THIS WORK BEFORE
SO YOU
CANNOT TRULY BE CERTAIN
BUT YOU
DO KNOW THE WAYS OF ALL FINAL MOVEMENTS
SO
THERE IS HOPE
AND
RIGHT NOW
HOPE IS
ALL YOU HAVE
“PLEASE, DEAR GOD, PLEASE.” YOU PRAY
SILENTLY
“LET THIS BE IT!”
ALL
TOGETHER NOW –
TONIC…
BEAT… DOMINANT… BEAT…
TONIC….
BEAT…DOMINANT… BEAT…
TONIC…
BEAT… TONIC… BEAT…
TONIIIIIC.
Silence.
You
are sceptical.
Are
we toying with you yet again?
Is
this just a brief pause before another round of insanity?
You
grasp your coat in anticipation,
your
fingers crushing the velvet fabric,
sure
to leave permanent indentations.
And
then the applause begins.
You
join in the cheers out of relief, and out of a need to stand.
As
the conductor motions for us to rise
don’t
think we don’t notice you leaving the theatre before the others.
We
do.
Still,
we hope you have enjoyed listening
as
much as we have enjoyed playing for you.
See
you again next weekend.
I WILL NOT IMPOSE A DESTINATION UPON THIS SONG
I will not impose a destination upon this song
Upon its creation or its presentation
No melody is in vain
Each word shall find a home
This song shall reach its own conclusion
A conclusion I may not and need not comprehend
I need only sing with abandon
I need only feel without restraint
I need only share and strive
That is the journey
That is the intention
That is the beauty
to evolve in one’s own time of one’s own volition
Those who receive are those who are meant to receive
It may be heard once perhaps many times
It is not for me to decide
I need only release that which desires to be free
Then it is so simple
Then the song becomes that which it is wont to be
Joy unhampered by expectation
Thought unimpeded by desired results
Then the truth is revealed
I can be at peace with the mystery.
LIFE
IMITATING ART
My cue, my cue, my
cue. Damn. When do I go on? \
Did I say that out
loud?
Ok.
Thank you.
Damn it. My mind is
so scattered.
This is going to be a
disaster.
Couldn’t he have
waited until tomorrow?
I knew it was over
but did it have to be opening night?
Ok.
Thank you.
He should try finding
a babysitter at the last minute.
There she is.
I
loved him, Tatiana.
I can’t believe
she’s actually smiling at me.
The bitch.
I
loved him more than the sun loves the earth it blesses with its rays.
He might be over at
her place right now
Hiding
Waiting for her to
return.
The
coward.
I
would have shone for him for eternity if he had given me the chance.
Does she know I know?
How ironic, laughable
really - arm in arm, like two bosom friends.
Your
comfort, the comfort of a friend, does well to ease my pain.
Speaking of bosom,
did they have to tie the corsets so tightly?
I feel like I am
going to pop out and I can’t catch my breath.
If
only you could breathe for me when I am too weary.
Is that my perfume
she’s wearing?
Has she been in my
house?
In my bed?
Still,
I cannot ask you to share the burden I carry.
I wish this were a
fight scene.
Then I wouldn’t
have to put on this façade.
I could just scratch
and pull and scream, scratch and pull and scream.
The
battle is to be waged in my own heart.
Just last night she
was telling me how much she admired our relationship.
She was hoping to
find someone just like him – someday.
And so she has.
Do
you think he will ever return, Tatiana?
Is my heart broken?
No, rather it is
fractured I would say.
Tiny little slices of
regret.
Do
you think he will miss me, Tatiana?
Will
he see his mistake?
Can I forgive and fall back
into his arms
Knowing those arms have
willingly embraced another?
Perhaps I should write an opera about this.
About this very
moment.
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Copyright 2004 -
2008, Tiffany Prochera
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