That's the way it sounds to me
My hand dragging in the water
As you bow her violin in key
We laugh and drink Vichy water
My hand dragging in the water
The contrails in the sky
We laugh and drink Vichy water
When you say her name, I wonder why
The contrails in the sky
Hang like my heart in stasis
When you say her name, I wonder why
I give you my last quarter with two faces
Hang like my heart in stasis
Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
I give you my last quarter with two faces
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin
Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
As you bow her violin in key
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin
That's the way it sounds to me
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Comments: 6
I love the structure and rhythm, which is so regular that it feels like waves.
You've said elsewhere that one of your goals as a poet is to tug at your readers' heartstrings, and you've truly achieved that. Amidst the repeating rhythm of this poem, there's an emotional outburst in the fourth stanza, as the narrator acknowledges that her lover's heart belongs not to her, but her lover's deceased ex.
I love your imagery as well-- the first three stanzas have drawn-out, dragging images (the hand dragging in the water and the jetstreams in the sky), while the last two contain an outburst and an entreaty.
(I don't speak French by the way, so I hope you'll tell me if I got my opening expletive wrong!)
Suddenly today, I see exactly what you mean and I am amazed.
Here's the back history: I wrote a free-write in my journal, loosely in poetic form, with very raw emotions. It was all elegiac with my sister in mind. It was prompted by some music I had heard. Eventually I shared the free-write with the musician who laughingly replied, "I don't write songs for dead people."
I decided to turn it into a formal piece of poetry using the pantoum form. It's missing some of the turns and phrases that the free-write contained so I'm not entirely satisfied with it as an elegy for my sister.
But when viewed as Ann read it, I like it. :-D
I had no idea that you'd lost your sister. I'm so sorry. If I'd known this, I think that I would have read both this poem and Flying a bit differently.
As I read this poem now, the narrator's angry despair is directed at death, symbolized by the fugue that her friend plays.
As I read your poem in the comment above, I thought that the anger and despair were directed at the player of the fugue, not the fugue itself.
It's interesting that the poem works either way. That's a tribute to your poetry, Susan. The narrator's angst is clear and poignant even if we don't know the history behind the poem.