Thread: If You had only Shot up Bach

I remember you,
fresh as orange juice
in the morning.

A white laundered
pillow near my ear,
after the love making.

Heart not red
but pink, stainless,
from the blood of life.

Your hands
more beautiful
than your face,
chiseled.

They that built
the harpsichord,
that portal to Bach,
where you played
the “Brandenburg Concertos”
with the fervor of his student.

I fell in love with the arms, wrists,
which allowed your long fingers
to milk the ivory.

The Joy!
Organ Chorale fantasia ~

I never meant to leave.
It's just that Madness
had his way with me.

Then I, no longer
pure of mind,
was too shy
for you to see
my eyes undressed.

Time is a dime.
You flip the coin
and if it’s the right face
you might meet a mélange
of seraphim disguised as
whores or pushers
on a cracked city street,
always waiting for someone.

Time is a crime.
You think of
30 years passed
since you loved the
hands of a genius.

One day the coin
landed on the right face
though, tarnished.

“Laurie?”　 　

I didn't recognize
your hands
as one wiped off
the sweat from your brow.

Orange juice gone rancid.

Dirty pillow marks
etched on your face.

Your heart no longer pink,
nor even red, but black
as if it had seen
too many funerals.

The arms, the wrists
which allowed your fingers
to milk the ivory
wore long thin felonies of
track marks.

We went into a neglected diner.

You spoke of
dealers and hammers.

How your only dreams
were the nod.

Dirty needles shared
like a good meal.

You spoke of rat rugs.

Methadone
cleaned you up but
stole your teeth.

A scarred lip
still bleeding.

Nails bitten
from what was left,
as if from wolves.

I looked into your eyes
and probed for Bach.

Why, I LOVE the Brandenburg Concertos! I'm learning one right now on my fiddle!
Very original and "fresh as orange juice."
Like how you turned everything around in the second half, a perfect 180.
Beauty, music and love versus filth, sadness, and neglect. Awesome.

The concertos on the fiddle! I wager my protagonist might take to this! Thanks for getting the 180. That's what I was aiming for. The turn of a life. And in reality he's the one who's now awesome. Entertaining the idea of Bach, once again.
Thanks, Trides.

Wait a moment, who is it based off of, then?

A real, really brave man who pulled himself out from the trenches. Yes, he was a junkie but now owns his own business. In the end of my poem I left him in a precarious position but that's creative license for you.

Trides, I write about persons both figuratively and factually. Sometimes I mix it up. And like most verse I do employ creative license. I did this here but to point out all the nuances would take time and might ruin it for the other readers.

I hope this answers your question.

It does answer my question. :3 Now it all makes sense. And good for you that you met him again, and good for him, that he's getting back on track.

Glad it's more clear. And he's been back on track for a long while!

I really liked this piece, being able to relate to it myself. Visually, the short lines and stanzas actually remind me of track marks running down the page. Not sure if that was intended or not, but for me, it made the poem more impactful. I also really liked your voice in this piece. Even though I already knew it was a personal piece, I think your voice would have made it feel that way, even if I hadn't known part of the story. I think that's a wonderful thing. Means you're connecting.

Here are a couple of my favorite parts:

on a cracked city street.

I love the double meaning there. Again, not sure if it was intentional, but well done indeed!

Your heart no longer pink,
or even red, but black
as if had seen
too many funerals.

The arms, the wrists
which allowed your fingers to
milk the ivory
wore long thin felonies of
track marks.

Both of these stanzas were just lovely.

I look into your eyes
and probe for Bach.

The ending here was probably my favorite part. I love the idea of probing. The first thing that enters into my mind when I think of probing is actually a needle. I enjoyed that irony. For me, that just made the piece.

And, of course, I also love the 180 here. The complete transformation of life. That's what happens with drugs. The transformation doesn't always end so well, as we both know. But I'm glad he has his life back on track. That's wonderful, even with all the damage that was done along the way.

Nails bitten
from what was left,
as if from wolves.

I wasn't so fond of this part. I think I'd prefer a metaphor instead of a simile here. But that's probably just a personal taste thing.

But really, a lovely and personal piece. Thank you so much for sharing this.

Visually, the short lines and stanzas actually remind me of track marks running down the page.

T-h-a-n-k you! Yes. I created a visual onomonpea for track lines, trying not to sacrifice assonance. Lewis Carroll created a remarkable visual onomonpea of a cat in one of his poems.

and probe for Bach.

I love the idea of probing. The first thing that enters into my mind when I think of probing is actually a needle.

Sorry to disapoint, here. I was simply speaking of "searching deeply." But given your ability to relate to the poem, I see this as a perceptive observation. And a reminder. What you read into a poem belongs to you.


on a cracked city street.

I love the double meaning there. Again, not sure if it was intentional, but well done indeed.

You got it, again. Wanted to summon up the image, though ever subtle.

Thank you for singeling out your favorite stanzas. Here, we think alike. They were my favorites as well.

Sigh - this is a poem after my heart. I just love the snippets of memory. There is enough said to show the image, but then you pull back just before it becomes cluttered or sentimental. This is my favorite kind of poem. And the pacing is spot on. It has a very rhythmic quality that feels perfectly melancholy. I had to send this to a friend of mine. I thought she might relate well.

My thoughts:

Originally Posted by SilverMoon

I remember you,
fresh as orange juice
in the morning. This is such a wonderful simile to start with. Very powerful.

A white laundered
pillow near my ear,
after the love making. Very nice enjambment and rhythm

Heart not red
but pink, stainless,
from the blood of life.

Your hands
more beautiful
than your face,
chiseled. This one word adds so much character to the man. The focus on the hands is not tiring; it's lovely.

They that built
the harpsichord,
that portal to Bach,
where you played
the “Brandenburg Concertos”
with the fervor of his student. I know nothing of Bach but the image is so strong; especially right after the hands.

I fell in love with the arms, wrists,
which allowed your long fingers
to milk the ivory. Hmm... this is beautiful

The Joy!
Organ Chorale fantasia ~

I never meant to leave.
It's just that Madness
had his way with me. You know better than anyone why this would be my favorite line.

Then I, no longer
pure of mind,
was too shy
for you to see
my eyes undressed. A great way to describe the emotion.

Time is a dime. Easy, but you pull it off!
You flip the coin
and if it’s the right face
you might meet a mélange
of seraphim disguised as
whores or pushers
on a cracked city street,
always waiting for someone. Haha, this is brilliant. Your imagery makes me think of Dickinson.

Time is a crime. Nice repetition
You think of
30 years passed
since you loved the
hands of a genius.Here I wasn't sure about the enjambment of "the/hands" but after some thinking, I do think it helps the beats of each line in this stanza.

One day the coin
landed on the right face
though, tarnished. This is what I was talking about earlier. Just a snippet of an image, but it's perfectly enough.

“Laurie?”　 　

I didn't recognize
your hands
as one wiped off
the sweat from your brow.

Orange juice gone rancid. Nice job bringing the reader back to the original image.

Dirty pillow marks
etched on your face. Again, same as above.

Your heart no longer pink,
nor even red, but black
as if it had seen
too many funerals. This is very powerful stanza. An original way to describe the change.

The arms, the wrists
which allowed your fingers
to milk the ivory
wore long thin felonies of
track marks.

We went into a neglected diner.

You spoke of
dealers and hammers. A bit of moment poetry here, and it's so lovely.

How your only dreams
were the nod.

Dirty needles shared
like a good meal.

You spoke of rat rugs.

Methadone
cleaned you up but
stole your teeth.

A scarred lip
still bleeding.

Nails bitten
from what was left,
as if from wolves.

I looked into your eyes
and probed for Bach. Sigh... that whole last section really did leave me speechless. Again, a wonderful job. Certainly my favorite poem of yours so far.

Wow, Laurie! This one really left me speechless! A very powerful poem with good imagery and simile(s). Also, I know it is an all telling story and know it was difficult to write.

Time is a dime.
You flip the coin
and if it’s the right face
you might meet a mélange
of seraphim disguised as
whores or pushers
on a cracked city street,
always waiting for someone.

And this is, IMO, the most powerful. It is my favorite stanza of the poem.

Thanks for sharing the story with us

Some very good images here, Laurie and an interesting story too. I'm glad your friend has stayed clean, bravo for him.

Glass, this is the poem which will always be my favorite as I reflected with great effort, very aching at times. Love, separation, tragedy and the painful searching for what was known, as expressed in the last two lines. I believe writing is much about the marriage between the emotions and the intellect. Or, if you will, the right and left brain dance. You need to stand back safely when writing a piece like this (so personal - true to life) then zoom in bravely but making sure, as you inferred, it’s void of over sentimentality. Really, in the end it’s about “balance.”

Your comments were not only generous but insightful and heartfelt. And that you sent it off to a friend? Now, this makes me feel like a true contributor to a life. Thank you and thank you for the whole of this.

"You know better than anyone why this would be my favorite line."

Would we have it any other way? wink There's a fine line, as they say.

Cindy, you pointed to one of my favorite stanzas. Angels disquised as the low lifers. My point. Are we all not born angelic? Can't people see beyond the sad face of the clown? And you, my friend, left speechless? Really, it can't be!
Thank you so much for your lovely comments.

And onto my other friend, Cindy. Thank you so much for appreciating the imagery. For me this is the fun part of writing. And thank you for your well wishing,