This morning, I sat at the kitchen table,
coffee mug fogging my glasses,
deciding to write a poem:
melody instead of meaning
I began with Miles Davis:
short lines, cool as the rim of the cup,
spaces between thoughts
where the silence mattered more
than anything I might say.
Then I shifted to Springsteen,
rolling up my sleeves,
telling stories of factory towns and lovers
under rusted water towers—
a harmonica wailing between the stanzas.
A Bach fugue made the next attempt intricate,
lines folding over themselves,
a theme in one voice,
answered and answered again
until the poem sounded smarter than I am.
For a moment I tried heavy metal—
all caps, no punctuation—
but the poem frightened the dog
and rattled something loose in the pantry.
A country ballad came easier:
a lost truck, a lost love,
ol’ hound gone missin’ again
repeating every few stanzas
because some things you never stop missing.
Finally, I settled into a soft bossa nova,
each line leaning slightly to the right,
the rhythm of the ceiling fan
keeping time overhead,
a poem you could sip slowly, like wine.
Hours spent, the page
a scatter of almost-thoughts—
the usual drift
toward nothing.
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Originally Posted by Danik 2016
