Practicing Beginnings-- another poem
I'd like to revise this poem in the coming week--comments, please! Which parts are confusing/wordy/not necessary? Which parts do you enjoy? Anything that you think is missing? Thanks y'all.
Practicing Beginnings
Testing those eighth notes
talking through scales
weighing the high tone and the low
tempo and back
Each time the trumpet leans forward
into what could be a concert
to break this bar open in sound,
we the audience rise to the climax,
hang to the penultimate note-
then he drops to ponder the beginning again
and sips another water.
About to crash into winter,
the air tightens up for the plunge
into another weather.
Outside, the moon could be full
for all we know, or just an empty haze
in the pocket of a crescent
balancing drunk like the rest
of these midnight carousers
wanting some brass with their beer.
We press ourselves to the red plaster wall
to avoid the others on the bench-
their voices are cluttered with beer and cigarettes,
and the smell is getting to you.
I pull up my rainbow-striped socks,
try to pinpoint what you’re smirking at,
follow your eyes to the tuba man, laughing.
We’ve been promised
a deep adrenaline pulsing the ears
colored to the teeth
and a host of notes beating in the air
so fast they hover between us,
still hum by our cheeks even after
the horns have been packed up and carted away.
I’ve practiced beginnings,
tried to perfect my notes crisp and clean,
obsessed on the sounds of words.
I forgot-the beauty is only in folding
them all together.
Listen: a pinch from the trumpet
a trombone twist,
drums to steady the hand.
Give us a polyphony; we want
to watch the weaving, hear the melodies
holding hands-first a crease, a catalyst
the light bulb tips to orange
sense the liminal season
put our hands to the light
to better taste the wait.
Practicing Beginnings
Testing those eighth notes
talking through scales
weighing the high tone and the low
tempo and back
Each time the trumpet leans forward
into what could be a concert
to break this bar open in sound,
we the audience rise to the climax,
hang to the penultimate note-
then he drops to ponder the beginning again
and sips another water.
About to crash into winter,
the air tightens up for the plunge
into another weather.
Outside, the moon could be full
for all we know, or just an empty haze
in the pocket of a crescent
balancing drunk like the rest
of these midnight carousers
wanting some brass with their beer.
We press ourselves to the red plaster wall
to avoid the others on the bench-
their voices are cluttered with beer and cigarettes,
and the smell is getting to you.
I pull up my rainbow-striped socks,
try to pinpoint what you’re smirking at,
follow your eyes to the tuba man, laughing.
We’ve been promised
a deep adrenaline pulsing the ears
colored to the teeth
and a host of notes beating in the air
so fast they hover between us,
still hum by our cheeks even after
the horns have been packed up and carted away.
I’ve practiced beginnings,
tried to perfect my notes crisp and clean,
obsessed on the sounds of words.
I forgot-the beauty is only in folding
them all together.
Listen: a pinch from the trumpet
a trombone twist,
drums to steady the hand.
Give us a polyphony; we want
to watch the weaving, hear the melodies
holding hands-first a crease, a catalyst
the light bulb tips to orange
sense the liminal season
put our hands to the light
to better taste the wait.