All posts for the month January, 2013


Published January 19, 2013 by rlmcdermott

Who was Ariadne anyway?
Could she see the stone in the stone,
the moonlight in the moonlight?

The hard mirror told nothing of her face,
head bent in concentration,
hand moving up and down,
sowing thread upon thread–
so intricate a seam this seam
sown seamless in the great
blue gown of the sky.

She loved nothing but her art,
the poems she wove,
the poems that grew into great clothes,
great elaborate poems
that failed to rhyme,
songs that refused to be sung–

the poem that would not rhyme,
the song that could not be sung,
the portrait that would not look back.IPHONE Painting


Published January 17, 2013 by rlmcdermott

She was a dangerous girl
all darkness
kept in a shoebox in his closet

at night she’d listen to his heart
a glass harp
played by holding her hand
just above his breastbone

this is love she thought
this silence
this slow descent into suffering
this dancing on the edge of a glass
eyes closed arms akimbo
splintered feet bleeding

she wouldn’t have it any other way
this music
this dance
this love

in the spring
there will be cherry blossoms
walking in her favorite garden
camellias and the eastern sunIPHONE GEISHAA

Listening to Music

Published January 17, 2013 by rlmcdermott

Listening to Musicpeople sing
they sing in their bodies
they sing in their lonely places
oh the heart of it
a chorus of individuals
breaking notes
upon a page
throbbing vibration
this is the music of it
a welling of voices
rising beneath
the horizon’s baton

we are vagabonds
of our despair
begging in the night
be still
while I listen
it’s ok to wound
it’s ok to be wounded
we are all in danger
of memory and its consequence