Waiting for music
A harp is mystery, unlike
the piano, which I played easily.
A harp is rare in red dirt country
and I had only books for teachers.
But I wanted to play the harp
not the harp of angels
but the Celtic harp of bards
My harp was simple, plain
and sturdy. Months I worked
to make her mine, trading
time & skills for music.
But the music never came.
She has followed me across the world
and back again, my Celtic darling.
Like a lover out of bardic song,
she has crossed mountain & sea
sleeping in dusty corners
To be with me.
Hours I practiced scales, aligning
clumsy fingers w/ graceful strings.
Still, the music hasn’t come.
Perhaps now, as the horizon draws down
and the light of August thins to dusk
I will learn to sing with her. Learn
her strings as if they were my own hands.
The music might well come.
A sturdy, simple, plain harp of Celtic bards, so unlike that of heavenly angels so far removed from us: this image alone brings the song back to me. I had never heard it before, and I was struck by strength and liveliness of the music.
I also thought about the butterflies I saw in other videos from that hour, and those images came to me when I read “. . .followed me across the world . . . crossed mountains and seas. . .” but then you brought me back to images of strings, patient fingers plucking bit by bit.
I really enjoyed the journey this poem created for me.
I liked this poem a lot. There were enough images for me to see things but not so many that I missed out on feeling the poem.