on silent muses

constructive criticism always welcome

 

You draw
Her coffin
Among a thousand broken pianos.
A silent music note
On the staves of
a death row.
What do you know about her?
A black widow,
Cobwebbed in an idea
That she is silent now,
And so are the piano keys.
You know nothing.
Her memoir
Are only scattered petals
Of her black-poppy-hearted longings.
Herbarated, you think
She rests in peace.
You know nothing.
Words are faster than steps and acoustic,
First separate and chaotic
With too big pauses between them,
Then they run
As a river over big marble stones.
The water is always cold
And so are silent piano keys.
You know nothing.
What she says, she says
In separate, chaotic d-minor
And in disbelief.
You know nothing.
Those drops of rhythmic rain
Over the lake,
They sing and speak
And cling like chains
On her feet every time
She makes a step.
You know nothing.
You draw her coffin there,
Among a thousand broken pianos
In the hope
That this explains
Her silence.
You know nothing.
Rain drops
Only dance
Over quiet lakes
Of never-spoken cries for help.
Dance in drowning.
You know nothing.
To uphold your ideal
She remains
Silent.

Reviews

[M Breen]

Just what I feel from it (though it is a tangent from what I suspect the theme is): It feels like a composer trying to create a piece, frustrated, yet at the same time beginning to find the beauty, the music, then frustrated again and returning to recompose. The refrain of 'You know nothing' is initially an exercise in humility but builds in intensity to become part of the music. I really liked that.

Herbarated is a great word. I certainly don't want to be herbarated any time soon.
Excellent!

[Marri]

Thank you very much, I get a very good idea of how this reads to people, I am so close to it that I could never predict how it sounds. Thank you

[Hawkmoon]

... a great and powerful sentiment, the psychology is stark and somber, haunting and full of an astonishing empty brilliance that reveals a certain existentially profound strangeness.

[Marri]

Thank you for reading it like this, when I come back from work today will have a look at your writing, as I don't think I ever stumbled upon it... 'profound strangeness' humbles me! Thank you

[Circe]

I wonder what inspired you to write this one.... so curious about the meanings behind your words.... she seems so enigmatic and musically charged...the sounds of nature particularly lush.. until it all goes silent.. there is a deafening disquiet in this atmosphere...

[Marri]

actually this was a conversation with myself provoked by the lack of inspiration, I was sat in a studio with people painting, with headache from the fumes and was listening to something so good that it made my fingers move, but nothing came out of it expect cat scratches over the notebook. So, i thought how muses come and go, and in one moment one can have so much to say that the words outrun the fingers, and other times...you carve things on a stone, it;s hard and your fingers bleed...so, I guess I tried to justify my own inspiration by situating it in a context, by excusing it when it is silent, because sometimes around us are only broken pianos and nothing more

[Circe]

ahh, another beautiful insight... you find inspiration when you're uninspired... that must be the mark of a true artist. it is a delight to hear you say words outrun the fingers and sometimes carve things on a stone... yes.. inspiration can be so mysterious.. but it's thoughts like yours that revive it... create an environment where it can flourish.

[Marri]

I am humbled. I can only hope that one day my inspiration brings me close to the brilliance with which you string your words.

[Circe]

you already do!! I am awed by your writing and perceptiveness!