As her aria gently cadenced,
the diva's breath and mouth were set
for her most luminescent high “C”
and not a sound came out.
Vocal thunder filled the opera hall
as the gathered conoscenti
shouted grateful approbations -
hurling roses at her feet.
Who can name the phantom proxy
that lent her its golden tone -
perhaps a migrant partial
from a flute or muted violin
or a floodlight’s hum
or a random wisp of wind?
I wasn’t there but in my rashness
think I know (though lack the proof) .
I say it was an impish sprite
from the realm where poems are born.
June, 2008
i agree with Ivan...yes...from the realm where sweet beautiful poems are born....
An impish poetic sprite with a perfect 'C' & timing... Ivan
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful write, Robert. Music is the very soul of poetry. Warmest Regards, Sandra