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| T'Monde performing in Madison NJ in September |
Cajun Haiku
A world full of woe.
When the band begins to play,
We dance anyway.
Yesterday I read one of my poems published in "And Still We Dance," a journal representing the work of the Writing LAB Ekphrastic Residency, sponsored by ARTS By The People and the Santiago Abut Foundation.
We had originally gathered in September at the Madison (NJ) Community Arts Center to hear Cajun music performed by a talented trio from Louisiana: T'Monde.
Their music inspired the published poetry, which was edited by the event's organizer, the poet Michelle Ortega. In the book, each poem was accompanied by a sketch by artist Anna Hershinow, with a bar code linking to the T-Monde song that inspired the poem.
I wrote my poem, "Vanishing Garden," after spending time in October with T'Monde's a cappella rendition of "La Belle S'en Va." In addition, Michelle kindly published a poem, "A Bouquet From Louisiana in 12 Couplets," that I wrote while hearing the trio perform in September.
Vanishing Garden
I stand in this garden
where everything vanishes.
Dad in his Navy blues,
an arm around his first and only love:
Mom, with Ava-Gardner-red lips,
under a canopy of vines plump with grapes.
Lips... redder than the nesting cardinals,
or the roses woven into the chain-link fence
where my daughter posed with a bouquet
in her First Communion dress.
A dress... whiter than the worn milking stool
where Nonna shucked corn
and split pea pods with her penknife,
while humming Rogers and Hammerstein.
I stand in this garden
where everything vanishes.
Crows descend.
Bees disappear, then roses.
Rust erodes the fence.
The well runs dry.
Only the music never dies.
The night wind echoes in an a cappella
of haunting ancient words
whose meaning I don't understand.
What's the use of wondering?
This ghostly ballad comforts me.
Although everything has vanished,
I am not alone.
I stand in this garden
surrounded by angels.
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A Bouquet From Louisiana in 12 Couplets
This is the music of misery.
Sad songs, made for dancing.
I recognize the urgency of longing,
Although I can’t dance.
This ceaseless steady beat,
So unlike my arrhythmic heart.
This dead language,
Preserved in melody and harmony.
These words, made for heart-break,
In a language I can’t translate.
This is the music of
One-sided stories of obsessive love.
I know those stories.
I feel like I can play along.
This is the music of
The abandoned father and husband:
“One would hope
They thought he was dead.”
An accordion missing five notes,
A fiddle, a full-bodied guitar in autumn brown.
A chill fills the room
As the trio begins to play.
This is a harsh waltz.
How hard it is to live.
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