(after Ron Pretty’s Poem “Four Hands”)
drunk on melody: the music school’s broad halls edged with slouching squares of light shared that rippling lucid treble. I saw the river in window-glint the flash of trout - their spangled dance, and my cheeks swam with pink, remembering the way you annexed my hand, sowing warmth generous as your oaken eyes, gold-green beams, spring’s masquerade tingling in our skins we watched sky-fade like paint or tired leaves or the nebulous interrogations of night, its crossing galaxies your thumbnail claimed stars from my palms and my eyes / beat time between rippled notes like grape tendrils the pianist’s old griefs, wound about our ankles and the purple inside us our tangled beetroot love
This poem began by trying to be a Glosa (from day 3 of NaPoWriMo). Ron Pretty’s poem was the base I started from. He talks about Schubert and in an effort to get myself in the mood, I listened to The Trout Quintet as I wrote. Soon, I realised that trying to meld Pretty’s lines with my own was not working. So I scooped mine out to see what emerged. I found a kind of love poem nestled in there.