Thursday, January 10, 2013

Menu In The Cafe By Grace Schulman




 Google.com


Blue notes like words cry out to one another,
Harsh trumpet phrases, open-horn-like rage
Dug into earth, then risen to huge tones.
.
Vault the night air and, muted, fall.
At bedtime, Father read a poem in Polish,
lines memorized and chanted, There were trumpets.
.
and bells in his voice that held back at night
with wizard-talk I never understand.
Words that told secrets, pad locks to pry open.
.
spells against the dark. my father learned them
from his brother Jan, who cursed greed in music,
and who was found hurt.
.
Blue trumpet notes that sang to one another,
Secrets that unfurled like silver waves
far out at sea,
then traveled closer, closer.

No comments: