Night Music

He reaps what others sow
when he plays the tune
that only the ghosts can hear.

The leftover lives that others spilled
at his feet were not his blood to bear
and yet,
and yet.

I listen to that music
and can find

nothing

but a command to peace,

nothing

but a desire for rest,

nothing

but a hope where hope had never before been allowed to be.

I listen to his music
and can find

nothing

but gentle calm and familiar warmth.

Let him banish me,
let him ruin me,
let him have me,
let him anything me —

it is worth it
for a single note from his lips.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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5 Responses to Night Music

  1. araneus1 says:

    What has caused this recent burst of creative activity? Is it any of my business? Who knows?

  2. I really very much enjoyed this poem. It’s like a thought before I’ve had in my own mind while listening to Bill Withers, or Marvin Gaye, or maybe someone else who bears witness to pain (and wasn’t it Emerson who talked about your rejected thoughts returning to you…

    Here’s the actual quote by Emerson himself, which I just now looked up:

    “In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.”)

    My point in quoting Emerson is just to say that I really liked what you have to say in this poem, and the first line hit me hard, right away:

    “He reaps what others sow
    when he plays the tune
    that only the ghosts can hear.”

    And then the rest of the poem, which as the hearer you find in the music peace, goodness, “gentle calm and familiar warmth”. I identify. Someone else entered the fire, and returned with a torch of beauty, not pain.

    Thank you.

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