Songlines

after Lauri Astala

The continents sing to each other,
the coastlines harmonize.
Alaska trills forth a glissando
flowing down California,
Mexico, Panama, Peru,
to land a triumphant bass chord
right on the coast of Chile,
only to launch upward again,
flying from the tip of Brazil
to West Africa,
with a Greenland descant
soaring above,
until the whole world
at last resolves
into a single,
neverending
cadence.

What's Wrong with the Music?

Too fast a waltz? Switch to Viennese.
Too slow instead? A cross-step suits it well.
And if it isn’t either one of these,
a rotary, or box-step should be swell.
Do slow and heavy backbeats make you blue?
Try nightclub two-step there, instead of swing.
You’ll find there’s always something you can do
to anything the DJ cares to bring.
So take the music as your guide—you’ll find
there’s nothing wrong with anything you hear,
and with Life’s melody become entwined,
trusting that He who sings it holds you dear.

Mastery

Wednesday noon, Campbell Recital Hall, Stanford University,
the piano students of Fred Weldy perform for a scattered audience
of friends, miscellaneous staff and faculty quietly eating their lunches.
One by one, pupils who have been studying since they could walk,
practicing hours a day, for fifteen or twenty years,
perform Beethoven, Chopin, Scriabin, Brahms, Rachmaninov,
blurring one flawless performance into the next.

The final student on the program is sick that day, and absent,
and the professor apologizes. “But we’ve got a few more minutes,” he says.
“Why don’t I just play you a little something I’ve been working on?
This is Aaron Copland’s Three Moods.”

He drops casually onto the bench, as if he’s just invited us into his living room,
but at the first touch of a key, I feel something inside myself,
something that I hadn’t even known was holding itself on edge, relax,
relax in complete surrender to chords that sing out
with such a clarion inevitability that they create their own reality,
a universe predicated on the sheer impossibility of doubt or error,
a universe dedicated to the apotheosis of music and musician,
a universe in which each one of us listening find ourselves,
in this moment, forever, complete in our own perfection.

The Fiddle’s Infiltration

for Merida

When the mood takes her, my fiddle
will put on a violin’s ballgown,
and spend an hour coaxing her curls
into a semblance of propriety,
before excavating my tuxedo
from the closet and thrusting it towards me
with a meaningful look.

The first flyaway ringlet,
like a loose bow hair,
had already made its break
as she turned away from the mirror.
Stray specks of garden dirt and rosin
adorn her fingernails, and her bare toes
peek out beneath her petticoats.

Each partner she passes in the cotillion
is left slightly disoriented
for no reason they can name,
but not unpleasantly so,
and when the dance returns her to my side,
I catch a wink behind her mischievous decorum,
and a subtle poke in the ribs.

She dances the sarabande
like an Argentine tango,
the quadrille like a square dance,
and when we polka her laugh
trails behind us in a wake
of ruffled hoop skirts and coattails,
and arched eyebrows.

But well before the evening’s end
she blows a kiss to the orchestra
and we twirl out the door,
leaving shocked whispers behind us
as we run into the night
to find a pub, a ceilidh,
and some fast Irish reels.

Inheritance

“How many things in your home
are older than you are?” my class asked
when I signed on to Zoom today.
I found four.

From a grandfather,
a “grandson clock,” lovingly restored.
From the opposite set of grandparents,
an antique illuminated music manuscript.

From a great-grandfather,
a banjo-guitar, heavy with suppressed volume.
From an equally great-grandfather,
The Pilgrim Hymnal, “copy for the pastor’s study.”

A ringing chime, a melodic line,
a powerful strum, and a choir become
the family thread that never dies
as generations harmonize.

Möbius Guitar

Held in my arms, a guitar.
Under my fingers, the strings.
From the strings, a chord rings out.
Within the chord, a single note.
The note riding on a wave of sound.
Each wave hilled and valleyed, rocky with overtones.
Over the next hill, a small town.
Winding through the town, a street.
On the street, a music store.
Inside the store, a guitar.
A hand, reaching for it.

The Curse of the Noodle

[for Bruno, and for all musicians who can’t keep their hands still]

Musicians all know of it, scary but true:
The Curse of the Noodle, ba doobie doo doo.

Just sitting quiet, guitar on your knee,
The Noodle is waiting, ba doobie doo bee.

You scoff if you think this might happen to you,
But the Noodle is coming, ba doobie doo doo.

And just when you shouldn’t play, I’ll guarantee
The Noodle draws closer, ba doobie doo bee.

Your fingers now stray—one note, and then two.
The Noodle will get you, ba doobie doo doo.

Rehearsal derailed, and you’re on a spree,
The Noodle has struck! Ba doobie doo bee.

Ba doobie doo baba doo baba dee doo,
The Noodle has claimed one more victim: it’s you.

Wrong Notes: A Counting Rhyme

One is no problem—we all make mistakes.
Two still ain’t bad, but it gives me the shakes.
Three’s when it really starts getting less fun.
At four a soprano will call 9-1-1.
Five triggers worrisome heart palpitations,
and altos start doubling up their medications.
By six you’re reduced to hiding your face,
and once you hit seven, they make you a bass.
Eight makes an octave, but you’re off more than that.
Miss nine and the bank repossesses your cat.
At ten the conductor makes horrible scenes.
Eleven, it’s time to call in the marines.
But just miss a dozen, or anything higher,
and it’s bad news blues—you’re out of the choir!

A Tenor Exploring New Territory

The cold has cracked the fence of the low A,
the fence I used to peer through, wondering what
the lands beyond were like. The gap is wide
enough to enter—I hardly notice the edges—
and the soft earth of A-flat welcomes me.
Without thinking, I start to run, downhill,
rolling the last few yards and sprawling out
on a cool, grass-covered G-natural.
The sun is shining here, glinting off
the flakes of F-sharps in the rocks along
a river bank. On rising, I look across,
wade through, and strike out perpendicular,
curious now how far from home I’ll get
before the weather changes. After a time,
the grass gives way to rocks, then dust, and then
the great golden expanse of F. Strangely,
I walk the desert without the feel of heat,
neither the sun nor sand sharp upon
my bare head, bare feet, walking into dusk,
the dark of E-natural slowly wrapping
around me like a cloak. I make my camp
beneath a towering rock pillar of
pure E-flat, cool, solid, and comforting.
It’s far enough for now. In the morning
I will climb my deeply towering friend and look
out over the miles towards the plains of D,
look back to home. I will sing a traveling song
of exploration and of homecoming.
My voice will fill either the sky or the ground,
and I will follow it.

After the Dance

It’s the end of the evening, a lingering haze of sweat and laughter,
changing shoes and packing up instruments in a contented ache of feet and fingers,
and one of the dancers still dizzy says to me, “I love it when you stop playing!”
Now, I knew what he meant, and took the compliment—
any good piano player knows when to drop out and let the fiddles fly,
shucking off the bass notes that held them and the dancers to the ground,
and then the fiddles turn and drop an octave and the mandolin pops,
sprinkling sparklers over the packed floor flashing back in their eyes,
so that when the whole band finally crashes back in all that soaring kindling ignites
and the hall explodes into another breathless, fearless hour of dancing.
And I watch this fellow twirl off with his partner,
back to a life that was, for a few hours, suspended,
raised up into a space of fiery flight, spun about and transformed,
ready to crash back, breathless, fearless, and turn the world on its toes.

Yang-Yig

[Inspired by Tibetan Yang-Yig musical notation.]

This is your line.
It is a line in the red of your blood, the black of your eyes.
It is a line tracing one edge of the invisible space of your soul.
It is a line that maps your route from earth to heaven.
It is a line of grace.

Sing it like the moon crouching behind a cloud.
Sing it like a cloud filling the shape of a conch.
Sing it like a conch shell shouting the wind.
Sing it like the wind touching all the intimate earth.
Sing it like the part of the earth that became you.
Sing it like the piece of heaven you will become when you sing it.

Descant

after Emily Dickinson

My life sounds as a Melody,
though often poorly played —
Untuned it seems, and fickle —
Now jocular — now sad

But then a Higher octave comes,
Where sings a sweeter Note,
If I could only listen — close —
More delicate than thought —

This harmony — Exquisite —
Recalls my soul — to be
No mortal dragging on the earth
But singing — in the Sky

Chromatic, Or: A Sunset for Schoenberg

Bright center of the sun, a brilliant F
natural, scatters golden F-sharps onto
the sand, where the sea foam, with pale white Cs
and light green Gs, investigates the nooks
and crannies of the tide pool rocks in D.
The gleaming B-flat light on the water reflects
the deep B blue of the sky, and clouds,
withholding G-sharp rain, glow to a red
A where they touch the sun. And in the East,
E-flat will melt into its ultimate,
violet E, while overhead the moon
shines clear its C-sharp light upon the sea.

Tremolo

Each
note a
life each
life a
thought each
thought a
breath each
breath a
vanished
trembling for-
ever of
instants that
thought turns to
breath turns to
life turns to
notes and are
gone.

Music and Laughter: A Blitz Poem

Play with me
Play music
Music soothes and
Music stirs
Stirs our hearts and
Stirs our minds
Mind the gap that
Minds create
Create a poem
Create a world
World enough
World unending
End of time
End this nonsense
Nonsense rhymes in
Nonsense verses
Verses sung and
Verses chorused
Chorus gathers
Chorus repeats
Repeat the words
Repeat the notes
Note the accents
Notes in scales
Scaled fishes
Scaling mountains
Mountains climbing
Mountainous peaks
Piquing our interest
Peek at the top
Top of the world
Top of the morning
Morning of gladness
Mourning in sadness
Sadness shared
Sadness changes
Changes mood
Changes key
Keys us in to the
Key to be happy
Happiness sought is
Happiness found
Found in music
Found in joy
Joy within and
Joyful laughter a
Laughing soul a
Laughing master a
Masterful
Soul

Christ Lives: An Oratorio in Terza Rima

Palm Sunday is the day we sing and praise,
—with voices pouring joyful from our hearts—
the life of Christ, his teachings and his ways.

From long, devoted practice on our parts
—the notes, the harmonies that join and blend,
the exits, entrances, and seating charts—

the music that we offer will ascend
and carry with it all we think we are,
until at last we come to comprehend

the Object of our love is not so far
off as we think—for now we sense the rays
are shining round us: Bethlehem’s bright star.

The Rehearsal Sestina

Rehearsals always cluster at the end,
in days and hours before the concert starts,
a mild panic spurring us to move,
to finally learn and memorize the lines
that by tomorrow will become a sound
we hope will not embarrass us to sing.

And so we, with our morning voices, sing
in squeaky croaks we hope will not portend
defects or painful flinch-inducing sounds
that cause our trusting audience to start,
then queue up in a fast-departing line,
successfully—though incorrectly—moved.

So from our throats all roughness we remove,
our confidence and spirits slowly rising,
slowly becoming something more in line
with what we all imagine and intend.
In spite of the occasional restart
we know we’re getting closer to the sound

that fills us, sound that makes the hall resound.
We feel it now: a twitch, the slightest movement,
almost a flutter, joyful little upstart
wanting to join us, to help us sing
itself. Faintly at first, but if we tend
it well, then soon our every note and line

will resonate in ways that underline
the meanings, not just glib and pretty sounds,
but feelings, thoughts, and aspirations blending
into the truest power of song to move
our hearts, to teach our very souls to sing,
to make each moment shine like a fresh start.

On Sunday we will gather then, to start
our voices, form ourselves into our lines—
and then at last the moment comes to sing.
And if from higher realms we hear a sound
like resonating grace, we will be moved
to offer thanks to our Beloved Friend.

So let the music start!—and let the sound
of interweaving lines our spirits move.
We’ll sing with hearts uplifted to the end.

Then the music catches its breath

from a flow of flying grace notes,
eighth notes sparking grace into a
split second alive with stillness,
illuminating a space where
the keenness of hearing becomes,
for an instant, sight, and we see
ourselves, our fiddles, rosin dust
frozen midair as if in time,
clear but transparent over the
years since we last let the music
carry us together, the years
before, when we had lived for it,
and all the music that led up
to this tiniest moment of
no music, unexpected yet
inevitable, called into
being not because of us but
so specifically through us,
that we hear unison now in
each other, in the flow of sound
skirling, twirling around again,
and drawing us rushing onward

That Which Is Asked About

The music master —
Hands, melodies, harmonies —
Calls forth the music.
The student listens in awe,
“But what does it mean?” he asks.

Again the master —
Hands, melodies, harmonies —
Calls forth the music,
Same, yet unchangingly new.
“That is what it meant,” he says.

The Waltzer's Pantoum

If you haven’t yet waltzed, you can’t know how it is.
Stepping in time, sure, that’s a start.
It seems so simple, just turning like this,
But the whole is more than the sum of its parts.

Stepping in time is a sure way to start,
Dodging her foot as you take to the floor.
But the whole is more than the sum of its parts,
And both of you find an increasing rapport.

Dodging another foot, crossing the floor,
More dancers surround you, all twirling like spheres,
And both of you find an increasing rapport
In threading a pathway through all of your peers.

More dancers everywhere blend into spheres,
The whirling lines blurring as sight slips aside.
In weaving a pattern with all of your peers,
You find space connects that had seemed to divide.

As blurring lines whirl and sight steps aside,
You find a new power that carries you on:
The space fills with music that cannot divide
But sweeps you all with it — you find that you’re drawn

By this powerful loving that carries you on,
Arcing through melody, space, and then time,
You’re swept up, and in the new poem that’s drawn,
Your bodies shape stanzas, the pivots all rhyme.

Arcing through melody, space, and then time,
Musicians and dancers transcending the hall,
We all come together in one joyful rhyme,
Not leading, not following, dancing with all.

The music, the dance, have transcended the hall,
It’s simple, yet infinite, turning like this,
You follow the Leader by dancing with all,
But now that you’ve waltzed... well, you know how it is.