Monday, Monday, why do you persecute me? Why do you send me project vendors who can’t get work done on time, refuse to email you to let you know what’s going on, and still manage to do the assignments improperly? And on top of that, why do you give me over one hundred emails to read, then keep piling them on, as the rain that follows the flood?
Sorry, I just needed to gripe about work for a minute.
This one is for Donna‘s prompt about instruments and all the things they summon up; it ended up as a sonnet of some kind. (If you don’t pay attention to the sonnets I write, let me point out that I often follow the 14 lines of iambic pentameter rule, and usually the volta, then openly flout the normal rhyme schemes in favor of my own. Though I guess the only volta here is really just a transition from memory/nostalgia to a rawer emotion.) I listened to the Amélie soundtrack while I wrote this to get me in the mood for it. Concertinas and accordions of all sorts always make me wish I lived back in Montmartre or Dublin or Argentina during the turn of the 20th century. Or, barring that, on the Paris Métro listening to a busker, because that happens too. If wishes were pegasi, then I would be up in the clouds.
I love all things that speak in many tongues,
two languages at once. The left hand says:
remember Ireland in the needling rain,
the céilí’s shadows, pubs with ragged light.
And then the right hand presses on the lungs,
collapses ribs: remember Paris as
it tangoes down the dusty years. I love
unsteady things that quaver: bittersweet,
exultant things that empty every vein
to fill them up with birdsong, clipped and coy.
The belly of the beast’s reserved, polite:
it paints the colors of the mourning dove
across the world. I love its sighed retreat
that squeezes out the sepia drops of joy.