I like this quite a bit:
"A beautiful loser, she takes pleasure in being incomplete.
He draws tears from grown men when he plucks his box.
She is reckless, never trained, so much a wound clock.
They move like movement in a still life picture.
She sings behind the beat and leans into the future.
Stepping out of sequence as though they’ve just begun."
Read the whole thing here.
This poem came to me from the Academy of American Poets' "Poem-a-Day" email, which also included this commentary from the poet, Linda Susan Jackson: "I was listening to Coltrane’s version of ‘My Favorite Things,’ and I began to imagine that like great musicians, we improvise—in relationships, through life, and in our writing. Time goes by, the writing goes on; we take risks, and, hopefully, we can recover from our mistakes. We start again, making it all seem effortless yet remarkable at the same time. At least, what I want this poem to suggest is that moments of improvisation can hold all the meaning, memory, and music, as well as a little magic.”
Love it.
No comments:
Post a Comment