A Woman Goes to See a Great Saxophonist Perform

I love listening to sad instrumentals; this poem was inspired from a romantic saxophone collection. You can view the video and follow along...feedback always appreciated ;-D

 

If Poetry had a voice, surely he must sound unerringly divine as you. Like the dreamy seas, like the ruffling rivers, like the rushing waterfalls, you run every which way you desire—your beauty and your talent are equally magnificent, but you like your strange musical notes, are remarkably unpredictable and alter with each second. Your waves calm–then turbulent. You make my blood dance–then run cold. Your melody speaks of a rare passion. Your tone rages in a glorious sadness. Your cadence sways high and low like a genuine weeping.

 

With your True Love, you must have endured a sorrow so great it grew boundless like darkness, clinging alongside you from woman to woman; with each failed relationship you grow more stubborn and your tongue more rapid. You clutch your instrument–she is your soft maiden. With caressing fingers, you stroke her up and down like love making; with stiffen hands, you strike her harder and harder like fatal fighting. You kiss her as though drowning, clenching onto her like the gasping of air.  

 

There is profound melancholy that haunts, quivers and trails following each sound your golden saxophone utters. Each note is lovelier than the prior and each beat deadlier than the last. You pretend to be joyful, but there is a deep mourning with your breathing. You try to forget, but the bitter memories quickly return and your throat overflows with a wrath of violent ringing. You grow still; merely, from lack of breath, and again the sad thoughts pour in while you hopelessly rage out. The fierce climax of your enchanting saxophone embraces every known noise, intensity and emotion, sounding all at the same time; it shrills like Death and chills like Passion.

How is it—I no longer know you, yet you move me so wildly? Is your song the manifestation of Heaven’s angels? Or is music of a lost romance? The composition reminds me of my once furious heart.

When I arrived here to hear you, I was content. For you, my face is coated with moist compassion; I, stepped out of this fresh pond that which was dried ground, and walk home drenched, in our past.

For My Love (4)

A man came before me and claimed: “I am trustworthy like my father, because I am my father’s son.” And I saw within the man, a calling for greatness, given that a woman may patiently guide him through his difficult endeavors, he would know no loneliness. Together, we built an empire of riches: of silked kisses, of rare passion, of fined love. Our palace embodied in the purest form of delight, affection and commitment. How sweet was the tenderness of our infant relationship. How happy was our vibrant home. How harmonious was the words we spoke to one another. How wholeheartedly devoted I was and am.

When the truth came, it was a turbulent more powerful than any gale, it crushed my strong heart. Deprived and stripped, my face painted with burning agony, I wept, “Are you not your father’s son?” and again, he claimed he was. Now, I perceived this man to speak remarkably well with lying words that his own mother would believe, his brother would favor, his sister would follow and I would forgive.

You stand, undistinguishable to your lone companion, his influence has led a leader into a follower. Just as liquor speedily ruin the integrity of men into temptation, no amount of liquor can return to you, your devoted poet. What other woman writes and loves as deeply?

My love, your secret deeds have been done and your selfish actions have been accomplished. How gifted and proficient your countenance, your speech, and your composure; you stand honorably behind your deceptions without hesitation. How brilliantly you mimic a honest man, how dreadfully you mimic your father’s undenying virtue. How beautiful your father loves your mother, as I have I loved you.