Tonight's Poet Corner: Reluctant Artistry

Reluctant Artistry
by Belinda Roddie

In gentle curves, in definite strokes, I once painted
music across a dying winter canvas. The heat
spread from my fingertips. It bubbled, simmered,
and hovered in a cloudy halo above my head.

There were days when I played grand piano
in hotel ballrooms where dozens of waltzers
swiveled like machinery against my tactical
one-two-three-one-two-threes. Now,
I have no ivory or ebony to grace my hands with.
My palms sweat from the idea of facing a crowd
and performing a personal symphony.

Every night, I see the old culture disappear
into lunar craters, swallowed by rising oceans.
The new culture isn't bad, per say - it has enough
salt added to please the palate. But it is more a
polished silver spoon than a woven tapestry. It is
shining chrome or steel over warm golds and

reds and oranges. And above all, it is calculated, al
one-two-threes and step-by-steps, while the notes
I streaked across the horizon had no pattern. They
did not follow a metronome. They flew once I released
them, and I never expected them to come back.