Thursday, December 02, 2010


He wanted to know everything
a musician knew,
how to start with a note
that blossomed into a composition,
jazz or symphonic,
it didn't matter much,
Take Five or Beethoven's Fifth
as long as he could make
some toe-tapping or baton swinging
sense of the melodies
that swirled in his head.
He could write lyrics
all day long on a blank page
but had only the rhythm of words
to dance to,
the timbre and articulations
came from a different place
and were never enhanced
by a slick clarinet gliss
or a violin's frenetic staccato.
He was happy, though,
that he could listen to
the most complex pieces
or simplest tunes
and transform himself
into a feather
that floated upon the resonance,
landing gently at the final cadence,
gratified that he could internalize
the intention of sounds
he couldn't call his own.

Copyright Michael Keshigian. Reprinted here by kind permission of the author.

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