Another poem today.
Yesterday, a lurker here asked to see more of the real me. I’m always happy when people want to see more, but I have to admit that I was a bit confused. Which “me” did this person mean exactly? You know, more poetry, more philosophy.
Interesting. I suppose I should confess that those posts always feel off topic to me. Poetry is such a tight, closed world. All of my poet friends listen kindly, but I can tell I’m not part of their world. That’s okay. It’s why I post here sometimes.
And the philosophy posts? Those make me really nervous. After one of those I worry that I’ve turned into just another emo-blogger. Someone pass the dark eyeliner and the fishnet gloves.
I’m kidding of course. Those things are a big part of who I am. So is fantasy (in the broader sense), so is statistics, so is my desire to help organize some real community online that encourages people in their work.
There’s a sense in which everything I do here is practice for something else. I don’t mean I’m practicing for a book. Or some kind of bizarro media empire. Would you believe I heard bloggers still talking about that world domination thing in Las Vegas
I don’t want to dominate the world. Or anyone for that matter. I just want to squeeze in some more practice. Enough blabber. Here’s the poem:
Practice Is an Art
for David Tulley
The pianist plays alone everytime—
learning not to let the world decide
when he creates and when he rests.
Studios, concert halls, practice rooms
hallowed, not hollow, never empty.
The walls, the chairs, the carpet tremble
with potential decisions. Synthetic
fibers of carpet twist together,
their friendships forming expectant
berber curls, their voices hushed
waiting for the performer’s approach.
He clacks the cover from its keyboard,
coughs once and begins to say this
I am—
Meaning something more than self,
more than These hands are mine. These legs
pump pedals, sustain notes, build chords.
This room was not empty before.
I have not filled it except with thanks.
Though as for that, no thanks
depends on him or the one listening,
who wandered into the studio looking
to kill time and fighting music instead.
The battle lost, the audience slumps
low in the back row and hears
practice give voice to everything here.
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