Poetry: For April and Les

BIRTH OF A DIVA

The singer wandered
     questing only
     for the loved notes
     of the master Verdi
     scribed for all posterity
     on the biblical pages
     of the score
     she explored the organ room

The organ had been
     a friend
     a bewitching lover
     who caressed
     the golden notes
     she expressively warbled

Echoing through the hall
     they became as one
     the organ and she
     sustaining each other
     in a single, ecstatic union
     that only singer and organ
     could know

But the organ was tired
     of accompanying an alto
     of sounding low
     mournful notes
     repeatedly
     endlessly
     Sunday after Sunday

It yearned for a
     loftier
     happier
     sound

And as the singer
     obliviously delighting
     in her discovery
     of Verdi's Requiem
     reached toward the
     high shelf

Her skirt
     dangled precariously close
     to the organ's diligent
     hard-working
    air compressor

The organ
     always alert for
     targets of opportunity
     seized the skirt
     and sucked
     with all of its might
     dragging her toward
     its ubiquitous maw

And in that instant
     the organ was rewarded
     beyond all expectation
     as the singer
     in startled surprise
     issued forth
     with the most incredible
     high notes.

(This was written for April, a fellow alto and friend of mine from the Gregg Smith Singers, who was injured when, just like the poem says, she got too close to the air compressor of a pipe organ at church.  She was injured and even needed skin grafting to repair the injury.  Being a good sport with a great sense of humor, and despite her being injured, we had many great laughs over this incident.) 


FOR LES

A minuscule piece of lead
travels with tremendous speed
as it explodes
from the barrel
vectoring straight and unyielding.

Should it not know
its destination
and rebelling
turn back and
attack the quivering hand
that launched it?

Yet unwavering in resolve
it screams forth
shattering bone
scattering blood
forcing the soul to flee

So tiny
how can it do
so much damage?

I'll never understand
how a single bullet
can silence
so much music.

(This was written for another friend of mine, Leslie Dorsey, also a member of The Gregg Smith Singers.  Les, who was 44, was driving a gypsy cab in New York  on Labor Day 1988 to earn extra money to put his daughter through college.  He was killed during a robbery, shot point-blank in the back of the head by one of three men in his cab.  He was tentatively identified by police the next day, and it was almost a week before his family learned he had been murdered.  He was a very caring father and an incredibly gifted musician.)