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Poetry

Vibrations behind eyelid magnify

exploding sensors in inner cortex

with soothing, calming, implicit élan

that thrills spinal cord, wired head-hairs—

such the violin’s delicate finesse.

 

Its sweetness is like sunrise on a hill,

bloom of a red rose bejeweled with dewdrops,

green-sheen encasement of a chrysalis,

fluttering flight of monarch butterfly,

peaceful awe of horizon summer moon.

 

Youngest of joyful, antique instruments,

fashioned of spruce top, maple neck, bridge, ribs,

ebony fingerboard, willow blocks, brass bar.

Violins improve with age like great wines:

makers hold secrets of the mystic craft.

 

But even greater secrets are burnished

in the hands of great violin masters

like Kreisler, Heifetz, Oistrakh, Menuhin,

Stern, Faust, Mutter, Meyers, Perlman, Bell and….

Five centuries of hypnotic technique:

 

Amati, Guarneri, Stradivari,

and those imaginative composers

who create those slender swerve-curves of thrill

that seize the listener’s presuming neck,

freighting the brain such Elysium joy.

 


Among the delicate, delightful

creatures in the musical menagerie,

the most alarming, even frightening

animal to a child of two or three

is the organ, Behemoth of the Zoo.

 

It’s bellows pump thunder of heavens,

roars from the bottomless pits of hell,

and yet its Stop can part the burly clouds

with sunlit, spearing jigs or gossamer fugue

crawling from spine to cerebellum joy.

 

And between all extremes of feeling,

tone-colors to shade every listing mood

emerge like the swell of brook and stream

flowing into mighty rivers mouthing

an ocean of eternal time and night!

 

The range of the organ remains unsurpassed:

it is in itself an orchestra of fifty

with one dexterous conductor pedaling

like champion cyclist up a mountain

for glorious, panoramic view

 

that may convert a person of open mind

to fall to knee in sudden, awed wonder,

as tiny bones tingle, reverberate

like reeds waving in brown bracken marsh

while sunlight beams down in burnished glory!


A trumpet rings like a new breath of life:

the mind clears away all obsolete dross.

Trumpet re-arranges synapses.

Two feet feel as if they carry no weight—

one is transported to a Lotus Land….

 

What creature does not respond to trumpet?

Even a mouse or dog trembles in awe.

In the hands of a skilled trumpet player,

the earth itself half-appears to tremble.

Trumpet, the ace of all wind instruments!

 

Having the highest register in brass,

the horn can project a golden tone

that vibrates the occult cerebellum,

causing distant toes to wiggle in joy.

The trumpet is an awesome instrument.

 

A hot trumpet may extend a refrain

into the rarest realm of ecstasy

and enter the chamber of the sublime

where God reclines in mystic majesty

beyond reason or bright apprehension.

 

A well-played trumpet is simply divine,

whether baroque, romantic, or in jazz

where subtle rhythms may excite the knees.

A strong trumpet does all it can to please

the inner ear of anyone that’s here.


I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what I'd be gathering could be wool.

 

An inconsequential breeze ruffles the leaves

while some red and yellow flyers take off.

To know that this may be the last warm day

of the year provides poignancy and repose,

which is why I tire of being merely human.

 

I seek divine laughter in the rustling leaves

without any care for antic augury.

This sacramental day, work should be minimal—

it shouldn't be taken too seriously!

To loaf is godly and not blasphemy!

 

Great minds can only think while doodling

about the unknown: that element of play

predisposes the spirit to expand

to the cloud-laden stratosphere where

imaginary squirrels climb and play.


Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo and diminuendo

outdo other wind instruments.

 

Look how modestly the clarinet hides

in an orchestral throng!

Its notes come from down below

to arrive, amid stops, to the ear

 

with sensory bursts like flowers

exploding in air, its petals landing

in your surprised  lap, as if to say:

“That’s a high or low you didn’t expect.”

 

Those who loved you most:

Mozart, Beethoven, Rimsky-Korsakov,

Brahms, Strauss, Prokofiev, Debussy,

Wagner, Weber, Poulenc, Stravinsky.

 

Never middling you are either

sensually low or spiritually high.

While you might be manic-depressive,

you deliver emphatic mood clothed in blue.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 3rd, 2017

If that little button in the “football”

was angrily pushed for some island

you don’t even know about, and then all

civilization was transformed to sand—

everything turning radioactive,

even...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Feb 24th, 2017

Early signs of spring:

pale tracks of wandering birds

melted to liquid wonder;

aconite sings its lonely solo

song by a red shed;

a waxing increment

of two minutes a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 21st, 2017

Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 14th, 2017

Snow melting off roof,

that slow joyous drip

of icicles melting 

on Valentine’s Day

when lovers celebrate reunion

as snow and light unite

to produce the liquid symbol

of love’s...

(on which we stand)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 12th, 2017

On Valentine’s Day we kidnap,

cuff illegal bad daddies

(whose wives are on food stamps)

who work assembly line nightshifts,

and take them away from

wives, sons, and daughters.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 8th, 2017

Ticking-and-tocking in the pendulum

Of historical turnings and tumult

What enfant terrible hosts elbow room

For aggrandizement, bluster, and insult?

Veracity is what he says it is.

Finance becomes final...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 30th, 2017

Walls: an historical meditation

Everybody loves a wall.

Walls can last a long time.

Look at the Great Wall of China—

it’s great to take photos from it.

Walls are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 25th, 2017

Salesmen repeat. Reification

produces assurance and consumption,

yet artists loathe repetition,

preferring expostulation, objection,

and often, if bored, even

varied levels of flippant comparison

that evolve their own version

of...

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