artist, music, musician, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 44:

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Based on ‘Signora Al Pianoforte’ by Giovanni Boldini.

Started 10:34am outside of Stewart. Finished: 12:14pm. My dorm.

Untitled

Who hands a song to a chorus of one

to hammer each note into place?

Is not the musician, a certain position

assumed in a window of space?

Who lets in and lets out

and so gathers the nails

on the tails of the notes that they form-

from the pulse of the moon,

and the twister in June,

to the bister blown in by the form.

-Amy Struthers

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artist, poetry, prose, Uncategorized

Diary Entry 22:

February 12th: Woke up early and messaged Alex/watched Chuck Palahniuk interviews. Spent a good portion of the day communicating with Micah. Later in the evening, Gabe and I get Olive Garden. When we return, we’re set to watch t.v. together, but I remember I have a poem to complete and need to answer groupchat. I tell him he has to wait. Started 9:08pm. Finished 10:42pm. (Based on Joseph Christian Leyendecker’s painting ’The Violinist and His Assistant’).

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Moonlight on 7th

Who could imagine a tree 

singing of heaven 

in an uprooted forest

or the Actaeon of ambition 

daring to quench his thirst 

with a sonata

that waltzes on glass?

 

Here

stir the sonnets of broken bars

and the metronomed soles

downing the beats  

they call 

ichor. 

 

Tossing peanuts into caps, 

a sleight of hand,

sprouts diamonds from the waterlogged wells

and in a misguided hope, spares a penny for good luck.

 

In a city that’s forgotten its core,

what’s to make of the hollow, 

in which the hair of Pegasus still sounds?

 

Grazing the grounds,

the stag strings his bow with a quivering arrow.

His marrow?

The moonlight.

-Amy Struthers

flute, flutist, music, musician, poem, poetry, rhyme, rhyming, Uncategorized

The Flutist

Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song

entice the plum-pursed lips

gripping for the galaxies

confined to sullen sips.

 

A cup-eared chorus hollers back

to smooth the clods of clay

molded by the penchant of the potters who will play.

 

A honey-suckle sound escapes,

to which the bees reply,

“Had only we a gentry cup

our lot may never die.”

-Amy Struthers