ghosts
they reside alive
inside spectral orchestras and phantom choruses.
in symphonies conceived
for ephemeral keys -
that exceed the highest c of a tiny piccolo
or below the lowest note of a double bass cello.
a place beyond the bounds of the ebony and ivory,
a state
no violin can ever grace within its strings,
elusive songs sopranos cannot sing –
theirs solos unsuited, too out of their range.
for here lie all the capriccios and rhapsodies,
concertos, oratorios and melodies,
hidden incognito in distant frequencies –
the other side of sound.
every euphony, harmony,
strains and refrains -
locked in their mock transcendence
inaudible,
aloud.
clair de lune
and i return to poetry
still trying to write that debussy moonlight.
to paint the language of a night
when the andante’s a canvas.
its melodious brush-stroke
sustained on a pedal,
the composition construed by beguiling piano.
that watercolour opening
of the third movement,
that moment
when the pen comes to rest in your hand,
palette put down
and we gaze sky-bound into another contemplation.
round and around
and for the record
you did keep me waiting,
circumnavigating
the dead waxed groove.
the runout loop
that you’d pressed into your acetate,
repeating my fate
on a rotating platter
revolving me round a spindle made of silver.
my needle, led on
by your circular thread -
a hollow you said
i needed to follow
for a coda you said
that would give me some closure.
yet all i picked up was just continuous friction,
the clicks and ticks
of dust stuck in a rhythm.
you had played me out by stringing me along,
leaving me to spin
alone in your orbit.
Flight of the dragonfly 