Debussy fills me in three-quarter time;
the trombone gliding
up, up and down down
groaning the melody
I know so well
I like to imagine
my neurons and transmitters
swaying like musical notes
or perhaps
pausing in aesthetic bliss
It must be said
that the music fills me
incompletely
Leaving behind an inch
thick of cerebrum
the sliver of brain that is our
consciousness,
the area that revels
in Debussy's waves
I exist in this space as do the arabesques
of our French composer.
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Special thanks to Fred Babbin for all his help with restructuring this.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful poetic thoughts, but you must learn how to write a poem. If not rhyme, at least rhythm. The poem shold sing like Debussy.