I am listening to a CBC radio podcast from the Ideas program called 9 Minutes that Changed the World. In it the work of Claude Debussy is analyzed and posited as the beginning of the 20th century. The hypothesis is that the music that went before was ordered and structured and technical. With Debussy, music bursts boundaries and flouts technical rules for composition. This musical revolution leads the vanguard of a new western world where rule breaking or perhaps more accurately thinking outside the box, ignoring old rules is the rule. Debussy is sometimes called a musical impressionist where music creates mystical impressions in the manner of Turner’s paintings. Poetry is mentioned in passing, but I would guess the Beats of the 1950s at least, but free verse for sure are included. All this is then at least 60-70 years old for words but actually dates back to Symbolism in late 1850s France. So…. my poetry is out of date. My playing with integrating words, images both moving & still and music in single word paintings is merely a re-arrangement of old standards. Not that this realization will stop me…..
i painted green leaves on a tree in my yard
they grew on a tree that was savagely cut
naked it was as it seemed to stand dying
but sun and rain and kind words
sent it growing
Simon muttered stumbling, kicking a small green cup, sending it spinning and twisting across the floor. Light danced as it moved and a thin sound came from it, like a scream but pure. The wall wavered again
Simon turned away and into the wall, then stopped. It felt good. Little sparks scratched and titillated that deep itch that never quite subsided. He stretched his arms out wide and floated up slightly, letting the cinder blocks meld into him, firm after the softness of their plaster cover. He shimmied slightly pushing the rough molecules deeper , sharpening and polishing. He stretched his toes out – that always felt good in a hot bath after a long day – and felt the curious little sparking warm them. He flexed his legs carefully sending part of his left foot outside of the wall. Simon heard steps outside and pushed his face part way, looking into the hallway leading to the stairs and building doors. A short, blonde girl with incongruous jet black eyelashes screamed. He moved back hastily into the security of the wall.
‘The man was tall, well perhaps just a bit above average height’ . . . Simon stopped for a moment to consider . . . ‘tall, yes’ he decided, but not freakishly so.
‘He was handsome too in a dark way. Midnight brown eyes in a almost Mediterranean face that was always fresh shaved, framed by a button down collar on a crisply ironed checked shirt…..’ He seemed unaware of Simon’s attention.
‘….and thinly tailored blue dress trousers with fashionably brown leather shoes’, Simon added, not wishing to leave the picture unfinished. The man spoke easily and confidently, in a mid range voice, with hints of bass, smiling slightly at small hints of jokes he made, and serious in turn, rotating both. His intelligence was thrusting and deep and quick. Yet he chatted affably and easily as a friend to a friend, and equal to an equal, giving no hint of superiority.
I guess that’s why Simon felt annoyed.
Simon sat, feeling the breeze soft and fresh, hearing trees rustling softly to each other; their song strummed lightly. Sundays were so quiet, dead, or nearly so. He was in Hell’s waiting room, after all. He thought for a moment about that phrase, ‘after all’. How appropriate! He was now after ‘all’ his life and was waiting. Other ‘guests’, in their golden years snorted, farted, lay inert or babbled meaninglessly. Perhaps together it all made sense. The noises of Hell’s invitees, an orchestra tuning up for a tuneless eternity. Katy came, floating in the air an inch or two above the bench beside him, but was interrupted for a bit by an almost poem that popped into his head…… then she returned into view, beckoning, threatening, promising. ‘Well’, Simon supposed, ‘what sort of hell would Hell be without her?’ A pretty poor one, ‘a hell’ rather than ‘the Hell’. He ignored her for the moment,