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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 8 of 8. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 21:11:21
From the drawing-room in a dark corner,
of his maybe forgotten mistress,
silent and covered in dust,
the harp used to be seen.How many notes used to sleep in his strings,
like a bird sleeps in the branches,
waiting for the hand of snow
that knows how to force them out!Oh! -I thought- how many times genius
sleeps like this in the bottom of the soul,
and a voice, like Lazarus, waits
and says to him "Get up and go!"
Posted by Atticus on August 27, 2004, at 21:42:28
In reply to poem...Lazarus, posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 21:11:21
Your poems just keep getting better and better. You seem to have awakened something in yourself. This piece in particular hits home because during the eight years when I was really struggling with my illness, just doing simple day-to-day things seemed monumentally difficult, and I couldn't seem to string two words together. Nor could I summon the motivation to even try. That harp, with its strings gone silent and neglected, is a superb metaphor for how that felt. And of course, Muses carried little harp-like lyres or something, didn't they? Was that a deliberate allusion here? Were you/are you a musician? Are you the harp's "mistress"? :) Atticus
Posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 22:48:54
In reply to poem...Lazarus, posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 21:11:21
When I was eleven my father bought me a guitar when I expressed interest in playing one. It was just an inexpensive one but fine for a beginner. I still remember the name of the store where I used to take lessons <<Reznicks> in Winston-Salem. Then my father hired a student from the School of the Arts named Paul who drove a gold <<Hornet>>. You're probably too young to remember this particular make of car but at the time I thought it was really cool. Paul was a great teacher; he wore these funny coke-bottle glass, the lenses were particularly thick. On one occasion we went to visit my aunt and uncle and my father insisted I bring my guitar-(I didn't want to because I was shy playing it for anyone except my mom, dad, and sister). When we got home and were unloading the car the guitar was the last to come out and I had leaned it upright inside the open door of the station wagon. My sister didn't know it was there and slammed the door on it and at the bottom it had a small dent. I was devastated! Dad said not to worry he would fix it up (he is very handy.) We went out the next day and he bought a big pink and yellow flower sticker that was thick and patched the hole.
When I was thirteen we moved to Pittsburgh and for my birthday my Dad bought me a beautiful Spanish rosewood classical guitar. I took lessons from Mrs. Lewis, our next door neighbor, who was about 75; she taught piano and guitar. I progressed to playing classical guitar, had recitals, and almost every night my father would say, "Play me something". His favorite piece was "Claire de Lune" by Debussy. THEN my parents got divorced and my Dad had this girlfriend who moved in with us, she was only 14 years older than me, and all Dad's attention went to her. I felt like I had fallen off a pedestal, I always wanted to please him and playing the guitar was one way to do that.
Sorry this is so long but this particular memory was the seed that sprouted the poem. At 17 I was diagnosed with anorexia and the guitar was the last thing on my mind. I couldn't stand his girlfriend, she was truly evil in my 17 year old eyes. I went to live with my mother, leaving the guitar at his house. At holidays my father would request that I play some for him, but I would use the excuse that I had stopped my lessons due to schoolwork, etc. When I went to college I deliberately left the guitar behind. About five years ago I went to visit him and decided to take it home. By that point I had forgotten a lot, but still knew how to play chords, but nothing like in my prime when I could play Segovia and the like.
It's sitting in a corner of my living room and I have to remember to dust it once in a while. My dad always asks me why I don't play it anymore but I never explain it because I can't believe he never "got it".
It's intriguing what you said about the muses. Spirits that watch over musicians. It wasn't a deliberate allusion though. While I am the "harp's mistress I am a neglectful one at best. Playing it reminds me too much of a dark time when I fell from grace and became sick.
malthus an ersatz mistress
Posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 23:19:33
In reply to Re: poem...Lazarus » malthus, posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 22:48:54
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 28, 2004, at 7:20:27
In reply to Re: poem...Lazarus » malthus, posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 22:48:54
I hope it's okay for me to comment?
Your poem was lovely and very well written. The more I read it, the more I like it, and I get a deeper meaning out of the words.
It has a serene beauty.
Your story about how the poem came to be gives the poem even more depth.
I loved hearing your story and found it was not too long at all. The stories of our lives are so rich. I am touched by yours.
I look forward to more of your writing.Jai Narayan the crone who cares
Posted by Atticus on August 28, 2004, at 8:16:29
In reply to Re: poem...Lazarus » malthus, posted by malthus on August 27, 2004, at 22:48:54
Wow. What an amazing backstory to this poem. No wonder it has such resonance and power. Well, you're doing a great job strumming words right now, plucking syllables and phrases like half-notes and musical themes. Maybe this new music, poetry, is the artistic form of expression that's right for you now. I've moved back and forth between painting and writing my whole life. Sometimes one was just more "right" given the moment, circumstances, and my brain chemistry. And all this practice is definitely making you better and better at it. Keeping playing. ;) Atticus
Posted by malthus on August 28, 2004, at 11:39:44
In reply to Re: poem...Lazarus, posted by Jai Narayan on August 28, 2004, at 7:20:27
Hi Jai:
I can't seem to get the hang of when to add the name of the previous poster and to respond to them with his/her name in the subject line. It is a bit confusing to me about how the final subject line will look. For example I want to check the box "add name of previous poster" wanting your name to be at the end of the subject line, but I'm not sure. It's frustrating >:(
Thanks for your message. I hadn't thought about this part of my life for a long time. It's strange because when I feel some relief from depression, I'm able sometimes to look back at some of the horrible experiences of my life in an almost clinical way and then the poems seem to be less angry. But not always.I'm going to try to post this and see if it turns out correctly!
malthus
Posted by malthus on August 28, 2004, at 11:44:20
In reply to Re: poem...Lazarus, posted by Jai Narayan on August 28, 2004, at 7:20:27
Hi Jai
sorry i'm playing around to see what happens i can't get the hang of this!
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