Patrick Grizzell
Photograph by Myles Boisen |
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THREE
by Patrick Grizzell There are three. In the first is a large bell jar under which a small snake stretches itself up the inside of the glass over and over trying to get to the top but keeps falling back, unable to grip the surface. It tries again and again, all muscles taut a flicking tongue smelling its own anguish. In the second, a violin lays on the seat of a chair, its bow leaning against a leg. The wood of each is warm, red. In a corner is a pile of sheet music with the edges burned as if pulled from a fire. The room smells of smoke. In the third is a plain four-poster bed with a woman asleep in it, two blankets and a comforter piled on, just the top of her head visible, her face deep in a down pillow. I smell her all over me. On the left side wall, a mirror which reflects me and an open door, all of it music and stretch and the thud of what has fallen, an entire world behind me. TWO POEMS ABOUT MUSIC by Patrick Grizzell 1. Faded Love In that breath that Patsy Cline takes at the end of "Faded Love" it is as if every heartbreak that ever happened comes down to one broken breath one catch in the throat one moment in which all that remains is to let go. 2. Cello Suite No. 1 It is the anticipation when Segovia plays it that sends my own breath cracking, a pause in which a note played rings and stretches toward the next one played, not drawn out the way a bow can but still unreleased as though letting it stop would be the end of everything. if bach heard it, he would be, like me, i like to think, unable to speak. there is nothing i can do without such sad singing. this morning, centuries go by. i imagine a crowd of people, their clothing falling off and being replaced by new fashion generation after generation, all unable to move until the last sound fades. open your mouth. listen. LISTENING TO MUSIC by Patrick Grizzell Let's say you awaken one morning And forget what it is you do. It's happened before, you're certain But you forget the context. There is a note tacked to the bedpost Written in a language you don’t recognize. There is the smell of toast in the house As you stumble toward the nearest window. Outside, things are tumbling about in the air; familiar shapes but strange somehow. Then you see it: how after years only what's odd matters. There is a weight to you and you move slowly from chair to chair. You watch for whatever is going to happen to happen for what is hidden to reveal itself. You sit down and finish your toast thinking of your father eating alone. You make your coffee the way he makes it and remember the Clay-Liston fight. There are people you have loved and will never see again. You get your language back Re-learn how to see. Outside, the mailman is loading his sack Placing the chaos of language into order. On your street, twenty people will read the word "love" Followed by the name of someone you will never meet  Patrick Grizzell Patrick Grizzell is a poet, songwriter and visual artist. His books include Dark Music, Chicken Months, Minotaure Into Night, and 13 Poems, an illustrated chapbook from Rattlesnake Press. He has a new full length collection, Writing in Place, under way. Grizzell was a founding member and previous director of the Sacramento Poetry Center and has worked extensively as an editor. He has performed poetry and music with Allen Ginsberg, Leon Redbone, Gary Snyder, Jim Ringer and Mary McCaslin, David Raitt, Ed Sanders, Taj Mahal, William Stafford, Robert Creeley and Anne Waldman, among others. |
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