Swans Commentary » swans.com March 9, 2009  

 

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by Marie Rennard

 

Poetry

 

 

(Swans - March 9, 2009)  

They were sitting on the window sill

Watching, between earth and moonlight

At the narrow space where were standing their dreams,

Paradise.

Night after night,

They would catch up north winds

And the smell of whiskey

And the song of the cock

At dawn, with black coffee

All those things one can't just leave behind,

And they would pack the whole

Into a wide suitcase

They had planned to take on their trip to heaven

Where were standing their dreams.

The only thing

That made them wait to leave

Was that they couldn't trap music,

And their uncertainties

About the sort of tunes angels are used to play.

Goddam, imagine

A paradise without blues or free jazz

Just a harp,

Or worse,

A marine trumpet

One string—one tone?

They thought about it for un siècle

And finally they decided

They'd never die

Better than risk a place

Where the music was crap.

 

 

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Internal Resources

Poetry

Arts & Culture

 

About the Author

Marie Rennard on Swans (with bio).

 

Legalese

Please, feel free to insert a link to this work on your Web site or to disseminate its URL on your favorite lists, quoting the first paragraph or providing a summary. However, please DO NOT steal, scavenge, or repost this work on the Web or any electronic media. Inlining, mirroring, and framing are expressly prohibited. Pulp re-publishing is welcome -- please contact the publisher. This material is copyrighted, © Marie Rennard 2009. All rights reserved.

 

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