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Post by betsey on Jan 20, 2019 13:09:17 GMT -5
Blessed
Prepare for take-off. Two hundred voices, orchestra powered by Brahms, a Requiem
for the living. Find me among fifty altos, third row, voice full-throated, resonant,
diaphragm fit to muscle forth. Sound burnt almond, mocha brown, fulvous.
Prepare for the apogee, How Lovely is thy Dwelling Place, longing more palpable
than place. Deeper within, a fugue of praise. Plosive Pr’s give way to long A’s, whole
notes (women, brass) wing over arpeggios (men, strings). Evermore. Fifths fight fourths;
E-flat major harmonies stagger, suspend, resolve. My faith, syncopated, wavers.
There I am, a single drop in rivulet swoosh, at zero-g, weightless, a flood
of atonement, absolution, healing. No time, only space. No self, only soul rising
in crescendo, falling in diminuendo, a whoosh of wonder, a chorus of beatitudes,
blessed.
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Post by lildawnrae on Jan 20, 2019 13:17:05 GMT -5
Betsey, I could almost hear the choir and orchestra dueling (almost.) I think its difficult to write a poem inspired by music, but this poem has the excitement of a large choral work. I think the journey from doubt to blessing could be expanded a little more. It's interesting to see how Doty's frozen fish, sparkling only in a group, have inspired this poem about a huge chorus where the speaker is one of fifty altos. Sounds like a magnificent experience.
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Susan
New Member
Posts: 25 
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Post by Susan on Jan 20, 2019 20:37:40 GMT -5
I like the size and depth that this evokes. Some favorite lines:
longing more palpable
than place
No self, only soul rising
in crescendo
Fifths fight fourths (I can hear this!)
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Jimmy
New Member
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Post by Jimmy on Jan 20, 2019 22:21:22 GMT -5
Betsey, this seems quite original to me as I can’t recall having read another poem about being in the choir. You render it well, I think. I like especially the inventive word choice that seems to go with the sounds of singing (fulvous for example). And the end of stanza two where we hear they speaker’s faith “wavers” which again seems a word well fitted to singing, calling to mind vibrato.
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linm
Junior Member
Posts: 92
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Post by linm on Jan 21, 2019 10:46:51 GMT -5
Betsey,
A wonderful view of the chorus from inside a singer--a really original point of view! I love the way you set up the analogy with space flight/ a fighter jet, again, original. You use a light touch setting up the scene, taking us inside the individual singer. Speaking as a person with no vocal ability (tuneless, toneless, powerless) I can only envy. In a few places, though, I felt you could heighten the immediacy by a different word choice. "Fulvous" didn't work for me--I see the echo of "fully voiced" in the word, but I don't have any association with the term other than sound associations like bulbous or viscous, taking me out of the sound metaphor. "Prepare" could be a more concrete term--perhaps inhale; "more palpable" also slowed me. In the "battle" scene, the parentheses slow the movement; also the immediacy was dampened by terms that for this musical-vocabulary dunce have no resonance or association: "Fifths fight fourths; / E-flat major harmonies . . ." On the other hand, "harmonies stagger, suspend, resolve" is great; and "My faith syncopated, wavers" is a total WOW. I also loved "a single drop.." and the idea of being in "zero-g, weightless, a flood of atonement." Here, i felt the tripling of the words did not work -- again, less immediacy. But the ending rises and surprises. Thanks for letting us "sing" along with you!
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Post by Gerry on Jan 24, 2019 17:19:28 GMT -5
Betsey, I think this is a strong poem. I like how it brings in some doubt, some wavering faith. That benefits the poem.
I get that you're working with the Hopkins poem, and so ending on "blessed" mirrors the ending of "Pied Beauty," but with the title being what it is, I wonder if ending on "blessed" isn't too much. That said, I like the word repeating. I suggest getting it earlier in the closing stanza:
There I am, blessed, a single drop in rivulet swoosh, at zero-g, weightless, a flood
of atonement, absolution, healing. No time, only space. No self, only soul rising
in crescendo, falling in diminuendo, a whoosh of wonder, a chorus of beatitudes.
This then ends the poem on what the choir is: a chorus of beatitudes, which resonates for me.
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