MUSIC
Music makes me nervous.
Its intention-bending,
bowing and dripping--each note
dressed up longing for its
own reflection, orchestrating
its own flavor--An intrusion
I feel, vibrating my nerves
from the want of another
plucked string.
Give me a quiet room, more
enclosed not alluring to
persistent vexations.
How light and stillness
assert an assumed calmness
like sun streaks wrapped
warmly around
a cloth couch--where I
can peacfully lie--burying
my head into the blurring
fur of gracious silence.
* This poem was from Robitaille's collection "Leaving Only Impressions." ( Ibbetson 2000)
Music makes me nervous.
Its intention-bending,
bowing and dripping--each note
dressed up longing for its
own reflection, orchestrating
its own flavor--An intrusion
I feel, vibrating my nerves
from the want of another
plucked string.
Give me a quiet room, more
enclosed not alluring to
persistent vexations.
How light and stillness
assert an assumed calmness
like sun streaks wrapped
warmly around
a cloth couch--where I
can peacfully lie--burying
my head into the blurring
fur of gracious silence.
* This poem was from Robitaille's collection "Leaving Only Impressions." ( Ibbetson 2000)
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