Alyson Lie Jun 2015
When my sister played Clair de Lune
I’d go into her room and sit on the floor
with my ear to the side of the piano
so close that the sound would fill my mind
with the image of the long, coiled strings
vibrating, glowing golden in the darkened box.

I could hear my sister’s feet dampening
and undampening the pedals, muting the
strings, then letting them ring, resonating,
one note overlaying another, could hear
the creak of her piano stool and smell the
smell of wood dust, like old sheet music,
and my ear would pulse, almost hurting
from the sound of the hammers striking steel.

And I would begin to imagine things,
different things each time:
my aunt in a blue flowered house dress
standing in her kitchen holding a jar
of homemade pickles, her thin white hair
always in tight pin curls.

Or I’d be alone, in a long, softly lit hallway,
the walls covered with wainscotting and
lavender striped wall paper yellowing
near the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway,
a solarium, and beyond that a balcony
glimmering in sunlight.

Or I’d be in a field with small, white flowers
bowing with the weeds rhythmically
and sensing that I was
loved by someone.

And it would be that my sister’s
fingers were pounding deep into
my chest, and always, always
by the end of the piece
I’d ask her to play it one more time.
I remember the day I met you.
On your thirteenth birthday, in fact.
Bright smiles and a mouth full of braces,
you were the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

You were so eager to learn
that you’d stay up until the late hours,
keeping me company while uncovering the wonders
of each note.

“It’s time for bed,”
your mother would scold,
and we’d reluctantly say goodnight.

You came to visit though,
again and again.
In return I’d whisper in your ear,
help you learn a new language.
You picked up quickly.

When your little sister
took a pen to my leg,
you were irate.

She etched a flock of sparrows -
nine of them, to be exact.
But I liked it.
It made me feel loved.

Until one day, you left.

Your final song is one I will never forget:
Clair de Lune.

In the aftermath,
every once in awhile someone would spot me and
tell me how beautiful I was,
but then wistfulness
turned to pity
as neglect took over.

Abandoned, I fared the elements
by myself for twelve winters
without your touch.
I stretched and I waned,
growing old prematurely.
My tune turned melancholy.

But even twelve years hadn’t erased
the memory of your fingerprints
on my keys.

Your wife found me again at an estate sale.
She shipped me home for your thirtieth.

You didn’t recognize me at first,
but by habit you reached down
and felt for the sparrows.

/I found you./
This is a companion piece to the poem titled "Evelyn"
Tribhu 4d
Some scattered ink
Let me think,
If I want to write this or not.
Write about our story
Or maybe how it ended, I think I forgot.
Some blank pages
Let me imagine,
If I can picture your silhouette like before.
Eyes closed and everything went dark
Inside of me you left a mark
No, I would rather forget thy voice and chores.
With a piano in front of me,
Or the guitar strings held in my hands,
I don't want to play those tunes anymore
I might get lost into your neverland.
I know I won't be able to break free,
I will blend into thy illusion
And drown again within your delirious dreams.
And I won't wake up anymore, because I know I can't.
As I lie to myself that I will forget you,
Your remembrance is what I really demand.
/                                          there's a difference
between sycophancy
and, being:

like there's a difference
what psychiatrists
fear -              empathy

and what the generic
  (yes, that's a collectivist
term for society)

crave, in the form of sympathy...

why why, oh my...
words actually do possess
the fathomability of squares
and other forms

of ad abstractum;
        so... can you make
my sudden surprise: generic?!

    ginger ninja, bastard son of
a skivvying mom (um?)
   'ere we go! 'ere we go!
     rhyme and rhythm -

   now watch me perform
    a... mahler!

enough rhyme to encompass
a rhythm for you?

  - ginger ninja... fuck me:
   good that i didn't think it up,
             but merely passed it on.

(that seriously implies the genesis
of the concept of a paragraph,
in english,
      utilißing the hyphen...

i'm foreign:
   english isn't exactly to become
a serious concept...
     i fiddle with it without playing
a violin...
     i toy with it...

    the mortus operandi
  of the memoria of my great grandfather
(on my mother's side)
  was that i was supposed to play
the piano...

   sure as fuck i'm playing one now...
but all my notes
are "surd"-encodings...

   inorganic now...
              organic later...

ha ha! that fucking i're celtic
                              ginger ninja! ha ha!

it's a love: that transcends
                            domesticatic a woman;

because there's an alternative
to keeping one?


mmm...  just the thought of an alternative:

   one word clue...


                           mixed-race "bitches":

jay-jay- jay-may-can       oopsie far-vour
   (that's québécois
for                                 vow-oh-r
                     trump pursed lips...
                         far-  -voo- -voolevie-

and no... it's not a... favour...)
come to think of it,
   i prefer organic canvases
             of implementation,
           since: no poet actually
convened to surprise the, "idea":
which was already a priori in
            an ontological canvas;

this? this is just a posteriori!

   am i the first person to actually
paint onto a psyche rather than
                    a blank canvas of wool?  

what a fucking piss-head that i am
infuriating such ideas without
any actual implementation strategies!

                                                    ­                      /
/            every time the soloist breaks into
a solo...
     i start fidgeting!
            imitating a "paraphrase"
  of a conductor, allowed an orchestra!
      all, and all, that i own...
              are.... shadows!
          yet every time!
      the soloist from the soviet choir
on the song kalinka breaks into a solo?!
          i break form,
    of a body, otherwise intact,
hunched over a computer keyboard!

         the choir on the song

       one hand imitation
of a piano
on my behalf?

most of the times up relistening
i'm "thinking":

  thank god it's not
the overplayed o fortuna
by orff!

  i can relive visiting
  the mariinsky theatre!
        shambles! shitty-attires!
and english satire!
    applause! applause! applause!                /
/ i'm no more mad, than you already proved yourself to be...

everyone in the anglophonic
world is,
   "suddenly": a child genius...
if there is anything about
the anglophonic world, it's this...
language isn't exactly
a piano to be able to
master like the equivalent
of a mozart...
        fucking dociles,
                     mosquito types;
once in a while wine
takes a U-turn and envelopes
a maturity process!
    it's like a memory prosthetic...
i do shelter 4 to 5 memories,
but i never talk about them,
i keep them sacred...
  when people contend intellectual
debates utilising
their memories
like short-change for a beggar
on a street?
   i don't mind the beggar...
i mind the person "easily"
   accessing their memories,
as if natural selection = ontological
"selection": and
anything, but, natural...
      child genius is
                   a regurgitation machine!
genius comes from an a priori
aspect, not an a posteriori
    zoology perspective to govern minds...
the fucking army could have
taught me more than the university
or the school...
if honesty is on the cards...
  i learned fuck all at both the school
and the university!
in that i learned that
both attires of teachers
                        needed to be paid...
and in the relation to me?
fuck all.
          means just as much as
coupling (only canned) peaches
with cream...

i should actually prescribe myself
castration to counter the
other "intellectual" discussion...
but... given my at-odds
  fuck it, carousel...
      and let's keep
               the guess "work", up;

i already pledged myself
to washing my hands clean through
ecce homo:
   i'm not about to self-crucify myself
with mea culpa

is that how a jew would pray?
or a roman rule?
    i'm neither:
       and this makes objectivist
                 all the better?
i'm a tongue inact in a body
of semi-youth,
      within a leper colony,
                can i please see old
                 age of the 21st century?



      euthanasia is still
a fear of man anti man,

                      rather than what nature,
would actually do,
with man, having no argument,
"concerning" an earthquake;

good to know...
   oh i'm not mad with someone like
dr jane barton:
   i've spent 2 months with my
    only the women find any meaning
aged 70+...
  the men?
   memory cinema...
                     and that's about all...

or a t.v.,

                 but then again...
  most people who pass "laws",
             will never have encountered
       encountering newton's "jurisprudence"
of the law, of gravity...
                apart from that...
all of human-with-human "law" concepts,
confined by jurisprudence have,
and will remain subjective...

           and since subjectivity is deemed
negative, while objectivity is deemed positive?
    what's... the fucking neutral ground?!
I'm very sad
I'm very sad
because everything

because everything
Because it's not clear
what will be ahead

I'm very sad
and the moon in the sky is beautiful
but even its harmony
does not help to soothe everything inside

and even her singing
and even her wonderful game
on the piano of heaven
can not give me rest

can not give me stars
and can not give freedom
such freedom
what was in childhood

her i
forever lost
lost as well as almost all
in this world

/                         piano + drum + dancer

    = me...

    listening to old enough

(featuring rivky skaggs
       and ashley monroe)

            the raconteurs...

i guess that's the ultimate
invocation of

        body language into
this surd encoding system
       that's language
(id est: subsequent lettering).

— The End —