Day 15 #NaPoWriMo

Our prompt for the day (optional, as always) takes its cue from Arkansas. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem inspired by your favorite kind of music. Try to recreate the sounds and timing of a pop ballad, a jazz improvisation, or a Bach fugue. That could mean incorporating refrains, neologisms and flights of whimsy, or repeating/inventing lines or ideas – whatever your chosen musical form would seem to require! Perhaps a good way to start is to listen to your favorite piece of music and “free-write” for the duration of the piece, and then use what you’ve written as the building blocks for your poem.

Copenhagen 1961

15 April 20 2000

I wasn’t there

And this wasn’t the version I first heard

But when I found this disc

Lost from numerous migrations

Recently found digitally

As karma willed it

The crash of the drums

And the piano makes you pay attention

They part like the red sea

And our prophet on alto steps in

Being gentle with the theme

Playing it straight

So those who are not in

can begin

to get in

Our prophet fades it away before he is tempted to let the spirits inside loose

Piano and rhythm run us for a time, foreshadowing with slight changes on tonight’s theme

Take your 8 minutes for Stairway

This is 28 minutes until you are enlightened enough to realize this is heaven

Being lulled into a trance

We are opened to the flutist

Who nods his respect to the theme

But he is our John the Baptist

He is eating the honey and dancing naked in the fields

Our first foray into the true mind of our prophet soon to make his return

As the Baptist leaves, he comes back to the theme, and stabs at it

Making it, reforming it, but the history proves a mighty opponent

The flailing continues

The the trilling signals his end

And the prophet joins in where the Baptist leaves the field, bloodied

Short attacks at the theme




And when that fails

Our prophet uses his snake charms

And telegraph machines

Tapping out warnings

The dervish is next as he swings around with fluid movements

Sliding side to side

Using his whole body to free the theme from its structure

Removing its hard chitin shell

Our prophet massages it back into place

Giving it new life

Giving it bew purpose

Petting it like an over excitable puppy

Soothing the theme just long enough

To clip at it, chop away the features that make it recognizable

Out of breath our prophet uses his phases set on star shine

Squawking as a mother hen does to reign in her chicks

Giving another fill bodied attack with the dervish, the phasers and the caress all simultaneously

You would think the theme could never emerge from this ritual

And yet it does, more powerful

Carrying with it the journey

You have witnessed

And the final kiss before it is sent back into the world

Our prophet whispers in its ear, we cannot hear, it is not our time

But when our children are born, we make it the first song they hear.

(Unconscious write while listening to My Favorite Things, 1961 Copenhagen live set)

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