That line stayed with me. Music becomes memory’s compass here, leading through mortality, absence and decay towards those evenings when Gershwin, food, family and fading light made a universe complete.
Lyrical. Aching. Beautiful. I'M SUBSCRIBING!
I write at The Reflective State, where one of my ongoing series is Mountain Mysteries—atmospheric tales of mystery, folklore and the unexplained set in the mountains of India.
If curiosity ever brings you my way, I'd genuinely love to know what you think.
One aspect of early 20th century political philosophy is that every political actor, on every poignant issue, must have friends and enemies on a given issue. Without the yin to the yang (i.e., relativism) humans have trouble understanding things. Your first stanza made me think of that point. In other words, you know of something (god/heaven) by the absence of it when the piano chords give. Ultra-original. The ending was as well.
This is a really unexpected and valuable take on this poem. I had an interesting talk with someone on here recently about whether Good exists in isolation from Evil. It's a harrowing thought. I was not thinking of relativism when I wrote this but you definitely picked up something interesting there. Thank you, David.
Louise, the movement from “Piano ill-tuned” to “I follow chords. They guide me back” and finally “We sing for rain now. Not in it” gives this poem its quiet devastation. Music first reaches toward transcendence, then becomes damaged alongside the body, and finally serves as the path back to a life of terraces, crystal, fragrance, food, and shared songs.
The final line does not say that beauty has disappeared. It says the speaker’s relationship to it has changed: once immersed in life’s weather, now remembering and calling for it.
Please continue trusting this combination of sensory abundance and severe restraint. You never explain the loss more than necessary; you allow the missing organ, the troubled heart, the collapsed “one of us,” and the ill-tuned piano to reverberate together. That confidence lets readers experience the grief instead of merely being told about it. Your work shows how memory can become music even after the instrument—and the people listening—have changed.
I am so very appreciative of your great insights here. Thank you for seeing that I was writing in flashes and in soundbites, this is what tends to work best for me so far. Thank you so much, Jay Allen.
Thank you, Louise. Those flashes and soundbites feel true to the way memory and grief arrive—not as a complete story, but as music, images, tastes, and sudden absences. You trusted that form beautifully. It was a privilege to listen closely to what your poem was carrying.
What strikes me is how the music here is not just a memory, but almost a way back. There are people and moments we cannot recover, but sometimes a melody is enough to bring something of them close again.
Whew, beautiful in the way only grief can hold for a poem.
So kind.
Full of magic and love! Perfect photo!
Thrilled that you think so, Martin.
“I follow chords. They guide me back.”
That line stayed with me. Music becomes memory’s compass here, leading through mortality, absence and decay towards those evenings when Gershwin, food, family and fading light made a universe complete.
Lyrical. Aching. Beautiful. I'M SUBSCRIBING!
I write at The Reflective State, where one of my ongoing series is Mountain Mysteries—atmospheric tales of mystery, folklore and the unexplained set in the mountains of India.
If curiosity ever brings you my way, I'd genuinely love to know what you think.
Poignant and so beautiful! 💛
So kind of you! I am heartened.
One aspect of early 20th century political philosophy is that every political actor, on every poignant issue, must have friends and enemies on a given issue. Without the yin to the yang (i.e., relativism) humans have trouble understanding things. Your first stanza made me think of that point. In other words, you know of something (god/heaven) by the absence of it when the piano chords give. Ultra-original. The ending was as well.
This is a really unexpected and valuable take on this poem. I had an interesting talk with someone on here recently about whether Good exists in isolation from Evil. It's a harrowing thought. I was not thinking of relativism when I wrote this but you definitely picked up something interesting there. Thank you, David.
Louise, the movement from “Piano ill-tuned” to “I follow chords. They guide me back” and finally “We sing for rain now. Not in it” gives this poem its quiet devastation. Music first reaches toward transcendence, then becomes damaged alongside the body, and finally serves as the path back to a life of terraces, crystal, fragrance, food, and shared songs.
The final line does not say that beauty has disappeared. It says the speaker’s relationship to it has changed: once immersed in life’s weather, now remembering and calling for it.
Please continue trusting this combination of sensory abundance and severe restraint. You never explain the loss more than necessary; you allow the missing organ, the troubled heart, the collapsed “one of us,” and the ill-tuned piano to reverberate together. That confidence lets readers experience the grief instead of merely being told about it. Your work shows how memory can become music even after the instrument—and the people listening—have changed.
I am so very appreciative of your great insights here. Thank you for seeing that I was writing in flashes and in soundbites, this is what tends to work best for me so far. Thank you so much, Jay Allen.
Thank you, Louise. Those flashes and soundbites feel true to the way memory and grief arrive—not as a complete story, but as music, images, tastes, and sudden absences. You trusted that form beautifully. It was a privilege to listen closely to what your poem was carrying.
I appreciate that very much indeed. A privilege that you read it and shared your thoughts. Thank you Jay Allen.
Beautiful 💗💗💗
So lovely of you. 💕🩷
“Piano ill-tuned. / And oh well.” That little resigned shrug broke my heart more than if the poem had shouted.
Nice work.
Many thanks!
Gorgeous, Louise! And stunning photo to boot! This line is so breathtaking:
"Remember when,
on our terrace of the Universe,
everyone had someone to be?"
Oh @What is it? many many thanks my friend. Glad you liked this one.
Oh this is beautiful, Louise 🥺💙
Much appreciated, Himanshu!! 🤍
What strikes me is how the music here is not just a memory, but almost a way back. There are people and moments we cannot recover, but sometimes a melody is enough to bring something of them close again.
Exactly that, Antonio. Music as a spiritual, time-beating path. Thank you.
The first few lines particularly stole my heart Louise. So beautiful but perhaps more so because it hums with grief
How beautifully put, Dr P. I am really appreciative of your impressions.
Wonderful!
Thanks a million, Ray!