Nameless Child
It’s a moment he must think on as he is secreted into safest sleep. The oboe descends from the lips, carrying itself from the body. When the principal violinist nods, a harmless bit of something vibrates out towards us. Its intention is to give the other musicians a block to sharpen their instruments against, a mostly forgotten progenitor of a note they chase to wear down. There is no name for this mournful song. It is not even a song, though it sounds the same each time they take it out—something before music. It holds to it the wires that reach the nerves. I close my eyes after the...
Read MoreNaPoWriMo Prompt – Day 16 (Lyrics)
Don’t worry about whether or not you’re caught up in the challenge: Put a song in your heart with today’s NaPoWriMo prompt. Write a poem based on the lyrics of a favorite song. Alternatively, write your own song lyrics (with or without music), either as a response to another song or about a different topic. Remember, if you’d like you’re welcome to share a link to your poem in the comments below. You may also paste the entire poem into the comments, but remember that poems shared in the comments are not considered published in Wild...
Read MoreThe Girl Who Was Like Ruby Tuesday
Belinda Palmer and Clinton Pierce met at a pot party in 1969. Clinton did not like being at such a party, mainly because he feared getting busted. A drug bust would mean the end of his future plans. He resolved not to smoke but also knew he risked his clean reputation merely by being there. He walked out in the back yard, away from the smoke, the crowding, and the noise. A quiet sky spread above him, a fingernail of moon and the first stars shining in the pale blue over a scrim of trees. The sight of a girl sitting on a bench startled him. He smiled at her. She returned his smile. He...
Read MoreWild Violet Featured Works: Week of Aug. 26 (Music)
Brad Henderson’s poem, “The Snare Drum is My Genesis, Part 1,” shows the interweaving of life and music for a drummer. In Caroline Taylor’s story, “One of Ours,” an opera singer on her last vocal tour of London has an experience she never could have predicted. Joanna M. Weston’s poem, “The Musician,” translates the experience of hearing music into a vivid metaphor. In Katharine VanDewark’s poem, “Get Your Hands,” an piano concert turns surreal with something the pianist says. A preview article by...
Read MoreGet Your Hands
April 27, 2009 Known in Poland as “King Kristian the Glorious” the white haired pianist said, after almost reaching the end of his program, something not quite audible. Was it “keep your hands off my country” or “get your hands”? A murmur went through the audience flummoxed by the indistinctness of his words. Either phrase opened a roomful of possibilities. Did I want new ones, or would I keep those already attached to my wrists? “Get your hands”: I could use new ones, I thought. Others with the same idea had left their seats and walked down to the...
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