The Harpist

It was long ago that the harp met such a hand

So gentle to strum a resonate sound.

His fingers came to life with all seasons abound,

Plucking notes like feathers to each vibrating strand.   

He poured his depth and soul into melody

With tears that touched the cheeks of angels above.

His face of lyrical lies weighed on his heavy heart, always begging for love.

(But there was the box of ebony).

It was one show after fresh roses and bouquets, 

Patent leather shoes and musty perfumes hanging in the air,

That in his pocket I noticed the shape of a square,

And in that box of ebony he would never say. 

He waited for steady applause as the spot was on him.

The harp balanced perfectly on his knee;

Such purity and trickling vows he set free

When he unleashed the freedom hymn.

We soared like doves in open blue sky,

Misted ourselves with icy mountain water to fill

Our seeds of grain in fall by the harvest mill;

He took us where he wanted to fly.

Throughout the audience we held our breath

As we watched him flow anguish into crescendo. 

We gasped as beauty shone on the stage-like an angel-aglow, 

Though we went higher and higher, we feared falling to our death.

I started to cry as I heard resounding cracks

Of bloody ankles and broken toes.

He never noticed the cries of pain, and continued to compose

Measure on the journey we travelled with him - his last act. 

As his last audience we sat victim to his life

On fragile wings upheld by memory alone,

But I was one who noticed the mismatched patches merely sewn

On his elegant suit, held together by anguish and strife.

It was then I understood and startlingly caught his gaze

With one eye that held an overflowing tear as we neared the end

(My belief is he now did something he did not intend),

And he stopped in the middle of a phrase.

He stared a moment longer and breathed a sigh,

Set down his beautiful harp and swiftly brought out a boxed mystery.

He said, “Friends, this is a gift alone and a history."

And then we understood his final goodbye.

With the hand that produced fervid music ablaze,

Fingers that sifted through strings of angel’s hair,

A small velvet box was opened- the inner demon’s lair.

It was in that box of ebony and velvet that took his life in whole;

His candid desire that circled his heart and bound 

With rope the final sound of resonance, with 

The patches in his suit to intertwine with his soul.

Author's Note

This started out as a sad poem about how I feel about a particular friend, but I just went with it. I don't know.

Reviews

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It builds this beautiful reminiscing kinda thing, like a personal relationship with somebody all the way through and as a reader and one in the audience i began to admire this harpist. I was picturing myself kind of backstage watching, almost as if i were standing right next to you as you told this story, watching from behind the curtain as this person played music. i like the idea of the ebony box containing the basic ending, and the way you tied in the music to the ending of someone's life, though im wondering if maybe it wasnt quite a life but a certain phase. the narrator seems innocent but full of insight and knowledge, and curiosity about the box. you somehow managed to fill an entire poem with emotion without letting out a single emotion from yourself that would reflect what your emotion toward this person is. you merely admire the musical identity of the person and not the person within, which leads me to believe that you are trying to not see exactly what things are within, just what they appear to be, almost as if you are trying to zoom out for a farther away view. that's the imagery i got here. the music seems to be some sort of style or attitude this person has, and the choice to essentially end the music is of vital importance in this poem. I especially favored the last stanza. Your imagery was very good. "the patches in his suit to inter-wine with his soul", good job hayley, this is one of my favorites

[Zeitgeist Manifesto]

This writing is regal and elegant.
It belongs in a museum.
You poured your heart into this one.

[Chris]

My favorite piece you've written.

I would give this poem a long, detailed review, but there's only one word that can describe this—BEAUTIFUL.

[Derek S.Keck]

Yea, you were definitely T.S. Eliot in your last life, you’re one of the best (if not the best) poet in this joint. The layers of meaning you stack on top of one another and your ability to tell one story while really telling another story just blows my mind. You're an amazing writer. No one else that I know is that good.

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed reading the poem. Started with a gentle pace and got stronger.
"As his last audience we sat victim to his life
On fragile wings upheld by memory alone,
But I was one who noticed the mismatched patches merely sewn
On his elegant suit, held together by anguish and strife."
I like how the story was told. I love a talented musician. Can take you to a good place. A very good ending to a outstanding poem.
Coyote

[Robin]

this is an imaginative tale you have spun here , throughly enjoyed .

[Joel M Frye]

A phenomenal poem by an ancient soul in present times. Well, well done, Hayley.

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

I take this wonderful poem as someone who sold their soul out to get what they wanted and lost who they were in the process leaving the true person within already dead. Right or wrong I give you a standing ovation for this poem.

[Chris Smith Welshpoetcs]

All I can say is this is beautiful poetry my friend.

[Audrey Howitt]

This is such a sad poem for me. I feel as though I am watching you lose your friend again and again throughout the poem. Excellent work!

[Lily Mae]

"The patches in his suit to intertwine with his soul." I love this line.. As a whole it is a perfect write.. You allowed us to watch this like a mini movie through your great descriptions.. An awesome write...x