I wrote this music-impression poem in October, 2010.  For the imagery, I used the album, Flute & Sitar Music of India.

Flute & Sitar Music of India

Scott ____

Rag Malkauns

The ghost in the cup rises from the tea, though I cannot see it.  If the cup were covered, I could see and hear the porcelain disk rattling, as the ghost tried escaping.  No matter though–the ghost from the tea now roams the living room harmlessly, curiously, probing everything around me, as I capture cacophanies evoked by the mellow music.  The badger awakes to feel fall approaching, then begins its annual migration south, becoming a raccoon along the route.  Millions of Malaysian-made, plastic pinwheels move, by mega-boat, to the American market–where a boy buys one with Saturday money.  He breathes it into glimmering, green motion, while a girl pats and pounds a small steel drum beside him.  Maybe the maker of the first pinwheel did so by inspiration of a dead-leaf devil.  For it so resembles a hurricane, as seen from Earth’s orbit.  Running roads of hopeful redemption, the fat poet craves cigarette smoke he passes, in fantasy of immortality, yet reality of his belly-burden.  A hawk barks above him, and a dog flies beyond.  We gather in gratitude at the graveside of an idealist, to absorb the ideals we lack in our ridiculously realist selves.  For the dead live within us–as we live within the living, after we die.  A hummingbird hounds a hound too close to its nectar feeder, and his massive size is no match for this twittering twit.

Suite for Two Sitars & Indian Folk Ensemble

Sarah spreads the living peacock’s spread before me, with his approval.  For among beasts beside us, it is the males that are beautiful.  Elizabeth pushes a wheelbarrow of wisteria, and graciously dumps it before the Queen of Iceland–while the King meditates alone in a lotus, amidst a massive green of grass on a cliff.  Beneath, the guru takes a coracle to Greenland for his next student’s session.  Fruit bats hang languidly over a rainforest, and a fourth-world tribesman aims his arrow.  Just one of these flying foxes will feed his family dinner, and maintain his hunting health.  Margaret feeds a pigeon on Palafox Street, to the annoyance of a piss-paced jogger–who himself annoys Mark as he tries to drive to his monthly meeting on schedule.  Yet Margaret remains at peace–her 82-year-old spine reminding her that life is too painful to purposely add more.  Before a bonfire, Doria dances, her abdomen snakelike in the Saharan sand–to the awe of tourists from Tours.  And she laughs inside–for she is from France herself.

Meditational Raga of Northern India

Draw a blank staircase of spider spots of purple, within each of which is a solar system in midlife memory of the families there–in the now-gutted house from whence wandering vines wrap camellia bushes wildly, in its backyard world.  The graduate student, resting from requisite reading, climbs the nearly unsteady staircase.  And on a second-floor window ledge, under-looking the new supermarket in the distance, he writes, for a woman who will never see it, the Persian Poet Rumi’s most insightful invitation:  Come to the Garden in spring.  There is wine, and sweethearts in the pomegranate blossoms.  If you do not come, these do not matter.  If you do come, these do not matter.


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