Sunday, September 29, 2013

Classical Radio

Claude Debussy
I am listening to Debussy and so here are two romantic pages from my book, One Day Tells its Tale to Another. We all have these moods, don't we?

All is Ready

I have bathed in patchouli oil and my heavy hair is lustrous from brushing.  I am wearing my gold ankle bracelets with the ruby charms that my love gave me when we had been married one year.  My robe is fuchsia silk and under it I wear black satin that bares so much of my olive skin. Anise and cinnamon tea is prepared and I have purchased date and nut sweets.  Our home is cool as the breeze from the Bosporus flies through our rooms with the movement of the fans.  Aimee’s husky voice drifts through the apartment.  My public garments hang out of sight.  I do not need their black modesty here.  Gold brilliants hang from the veil I wear tonight. He will remove it when I finish my dance.  Or maybe he will not wait for my dance to finish.  My husband will return soon from the dangerous West, and I am ready for him.  We will recline on tasseled pillows and I will tell him of the baby that is growing in my womb; we two will become three. I am happy to be so beautiful, so beautiful for him.

At Harry’s Bar

The piano player stole souls.
They came close--to cling to the wool 
of his trousers, his foulard tie,                           
his worn jacket and blue cotton shirt. 
They nestled in the creases lining
his slight smile and hung from his arms
as they ranged across the keyboard 
with soft or scorching fingerings.

Melisande resisted, remained intact, 
in place, unbent. Her's was an anima
with defenses against bar room thieves.
Notes sailed past her pale skin--
could not pierce pores and steal in 
to capture her bruised and tender core.
As he played on through the hours
his power soared and dismayed Melisande. 
He would not have her. He would not.

Sipping gin, she glanced up from the safe, worn
mahogany where she’d fastened her gaze.
The patient mirror behind the bar
had been waiting for her dark blue look.
There the melody in his eyes, his soft brown eyes,
shot through glass to reach for her, gently.
Through the haze his invitation glowed with promise.
Slipping from her stool, conceding once again,
Melisande went to him, body and soul.

1 comment:

david coyote said...

Oh, I do love Harry's Bar. That kinna poetic story-telling gets me right straight in my imagination - and the next thing I know I'm playing that piano and watching her in the mirror.

Good good good!