Michael Keshigian
Regarding the Clarinet
Having sought refuge
upon the avenue of artistry,
while gathering power and capacity
through years of practice and work
to induce a resonance worthy of attention,
I keep my fingers nimble,
and cascade between silver moguls
planted upon grenedilla grain
in a perfect cylindrical contour,
tuned and dripping with wetted breath,
to play away the present, constantly
navigating dotted notes and multiple flags
behind an expressive face,
the way a long happiness
melds cheeks upwards, inducing a squint.
No lack of endurance compromises
the integrity to sustain the passion
which exudes from the parchment
upon the stand,
that stream of sound,
dissecting thin air in the room
with compounding ripples
until walls tremble
to the timbre of song
and slowly a brilliant varnish
builds upon the dull papered walls
and a new voice, like others
hidden in the world,
finds a home to sing or dance
or meditate in any place,
anytime I play.
Behind this face, in this mind,
where no one can see,
I have burned another color
between the letters of my name to remain.
Regarding the Clarinet
Having sought refuge
upon the avenue of artistry,
while gathering power and capacity
through years of practice and work
to induce a resonance worthy of attention,
I keep my fingers nimble,
and cascade between silver moguls
planted upon grenedilla grain
in a perfect cylindrical contour,
tuned and dripping with wetted breath,
to play away the present, constantly
navigating dotted notes and multiple flags
behind an expressive face,
the way a long happiness
melds cheeks upwards, inducing a squint.
No lack of endurance compromises
the integrity to sustain the passion
which exudes from the parchment
upon the stand,
that stream of sound,
dissecting thin air in the room
with compounding ripples
until walls tremble
to the timbre of song
and slowly a brilliant varnish
builds upon the dull papered walls
and a new voice, like others
hidden in the world,
finds a home to sing or dance
or meditate in any place,
anytime I play.
Behind this face, in this mind,
where no one can see,
I have burned another color
between the letters of my name to remain.
Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, recently had his 13th poetry collection released by Flutter Press. He has been published in numerous national and international journals, recently including The Edison Literary Review, Pudding Magazine, Muddy River Review, Passager, Studio One and has appeared as feature writer in over a twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)