Before This
I've scraped my legs bare,
scrubbed and sloughed off
all accumulations. For you—
to be petal nude.
I've risen from this tide-pool,
clean as I'll ever be.
You have taken me for granted
in my absence,
forgotten the stubborn muscles
holding shells closed.
Only precision, certain deftness,
and a sleight of hand can release
and open halves.
You will remember this—
in the oyster-light of the bedroom.
As pale as I am,
the blue threading of my life exposed,
deceptively delicate as most webbed things are,
but each connection attaches to another
never to be pried or rent from the rest,
and surprising— this resilience
trembling on a half-shell
always there.
For My Friend
From behind the counter, the old lady says,
"Honey, you just hold your head high and move on."
There is sympathy in her eyes, and an earthy practicality
as she adds up the 3 silver rings. They are charged
to the soon-to-be-ex-husband's credit card, and my
girlfriend is armed then with hands of her own
adornment. If it is true that love expands you,
makes you more than you were before, opens
you wide to this world. How do I explain the
pencil-sharp contraction, closing in her gut
like a pupil hit with too-bright light?
There is no comforting adage. There is no
amount of bloody-marys that can file
the fine point of a life that is over.
There are no disco songs at triumphant volume
as her soon-to-be-ex-husband hustles his
half of things out the door. There are pleas
and carrots for her little boy, and bone-tired
late night over-analysis, silly chick flicks,
and elaborate plots to get her laid. I tell her
that this is the in-between time that will make
later moments glow. And I can only promise her
that she will never have to stand with palms open
and naked hands again. Once her head
is properly aloft, she will not even see
the ground sprouting tender green shoots at her feet.
Last Call
Some day before your wedding,
you’ll tell your almost-wife
of some business here you must
tend to (she’ll believe you).
And I’ll open my door
to some stolen time.
We’ll go out to the bar
where they’ve forgotten
my name (but that’s okay).
Slow dance with beer in hand,
breathing in deep enough
to make molecules of you.
Later, we’ll kiss by the car,
tugging lips, pulling minutes.
I’ll always, you’ll always
be a question mark. Never
aligning, forever orbiting,
cul-de-sac, my heart.
...Sara Dammann writes from Denton, Texas. Danse Macabre welcomes her poetry to our pages.
The Issue with No Name
Discourse du Wagner
One thing however is wanting to these gentlemen, without which they cannot be expected to achieve the needful reconstruction of the orchestras, nor to enforce the needful reforms in the institutions connected with them, viz., energy, self-confidence, and personal power. In their case, unfortunately, reputation, talent, culture, even faith, love and hope, are artificial. Each of them was, and is, so busy with his personal affairs, and the difficulty of maintaining his artificial position, that he cannot occupy himself with measures of general import--measures which might bring about a connected and consistent new order of things. As a matter of fact, such an order of things cannot, and does not concern the fraternity at all. They came to occupy the position of those old fashioned German masters, because the power of the latter had deteriorated and because they had shewn themselves incapable to meet the wants of a new style; and it would appear that they, in their turn, regard their position of to-day as merely temporary--filling a gap in a period of transition. In the face of the new ideals of German art, towards which all that is noble in the nation begins to turn, they are evidently at a loss, since these ideals are alien to their nature. In the presence of certain technical difficulties inseparable from modern music they have recourse to singular expedients. Meyerbeer, for instance, was very circumspect; in Paris he engaged a new flutist and paid him out of his own pocket to play a particular bit nicely. Fully aware of the value of finished execution, rich and independent, Meyerbeer might have been of great service to the Berlin orchestra when the King of Prussia appointed him "General Musikdirector." Mendelssohn was called upon to undertake a similar mission about the same time; and, assuredly, Mendelssohn was the possessor of the most extraordinary gifts and attainments. Both men, doubtless, encountered all the difficulties which had hitherto blocked the way towards improvements; but they were called upon to overcome these very difficulties, and their independent position and great attainments rendered them exceptionally competent to do so. Why then did their powers desert them? It would seem as if they had no real power. They left matters to take care of themselves and, now, we are confronted by the "celebrated" Berlin orchestra in which the last trace of the traditions of Spontini's strict discipline have faded away. Thus fared Meyerbeer and Mendelssohn whilst at Berlin: what are we to expect elsewhere from their neat little shadows?
