Shannon Shows Me an Aeolian Harp

Shannon's hand, delicate
like the skeleton of a small bird,
motions toward the harp strings.
Her voice, spirited by talk
of pitch and vibration,
blends with the wind's sounds,
past sounds, sounds that ripple
far beyond the place
where we are now.
When I interrupt her explanation
to discuss inspiration and oracles,
she rests beside the metal frame
and smiles.

I am thinking of her logic, words
that have echoed to me
in lost places, structure
that has resonated with
my own eerie sound.
She is saying she must leave,
must return to instruments
and the measuring of currents.
I listen to the music,
watch her walk away.
Her movement is familiar
and she breathes in concert
with the wind

--Monica Garvin Dees

Stat looked carefully across the attic for signs that it would be safe to bring her in there. He saw a piece of fern--really a plastic Christmas tree piece--and picked it up quickly to throw into a box. He draped an old curtain over a trunk.

Stat cleared his throat and said, "Uh, I guess you can come in now." Stat's eyes, jewels above his dark circles, followed Sara up.

Sara ascended the wooden ladder to the attic, and it creaked and groaned like a man with a heavy load. She looked around for signs of a window, for signs of anything to look like nature. They were supposed to be going to the garden, but instead Stat wanted her to come up here. He closed the door behind her.

A Raggedy Andy doll (that Stat had missed) escaped suffocation in a plastic bag and smiled a sewed smile at Sara. It was rather like Stat's smile sometimes, she thought. He really tried too hard to smile, to entertain her. She shivered. She just felt cold. There was no breeze in the attic.

It was a very stuffy attic. Pink insulation surrounded it. Old boxes, poison for rats, broken lamps, a vanity mirror, a hair dryer, and an old suitcase of his mother's added to the stuffiness. His mother used to travel weekends. She played for a string quartet group that circulated through the gardens of South Carolina--Magnolia, Edisto, and even Hopeland, where Sara wanted to go.

"So, we've seen the attic. Now can we go to the garden?" asked Sara.

"Patience," said Stat. "Be patient." My problem is that I always have to be doing something, he thought. I always have to be doing something and I can't relax. I don't want to go to the garden because I know we won't go around and look but she'll just want to sit there with me in the wind under the gazebo and smile and enter near-sleep. Those pale women statues. Weathered pupils make their opened eyes look closed.

Stat fidgeted with his hands, and his eyes darted around the room looking for the box with the Speak and Spell.

He pulled it out. It was a florescent orange color and had an emblem of Texas on it. Stat produced a fresh battery out of his pocket and put it in the Speak and Spell.

"You drug me up here to look at your old toys?"

"No," said Stat. "Just watch."

The nuclear green numerals came up on the screen, and Sara rolled her eyes. Great, they were going to play with the Speak and Spell. For the month that she had known him as a neighbor and friend, Stat had acted like a little boy--always staying in the house, working on his projects.

Stat's jewel-like eyes were surrounded with dark circles from staying up too late. His nose was stuffed and his throat scratchy from living in dust too long. He had the child's problem of keeping a cold.

In the dusty attic, a hammock was hung between two rails and Sara was beginning to suspect that he lived up here sometimes. (He had his own room downstairs with a freshly made bed--highly suspect for a college guy.) Old radio and electronics magazines were caught in the confines of the weaved rope hammock. Beneath, snippets of wire were like myriad worms.

Suddenly, when Stat put the battery in, the Speak and Spell's monotone narrator came on, and, to Sara's surprise, it said, "You are so precious to me."

"It's all I could get it to say. I've been tinkering with it up here for weeks. What do you think?"

"Why . . ."

"My mother used to say that to me."

"I thought she--"

"I managed to capture her essence here, don't you think? The sweetness of her voice. The--"

Sara felt she needed to sit down. She pulled the baroque tassled purple curtain off of the trunk. And, checking for dust, Sara brushed it off. Finally, curious, instead of sitting, she remained standing to open the trunk.

Stat yelled, "No. Don't!"

Great, Sara thought, This is the part where I open the trunk and his mother comes rolling out.

Really, he wouldn't have brought me up here if he had something to hide. He wants me to find out. He just doesn't know he wants me to find out. He doesn't think I will, though. He thinks I . . . that I just sit around in gardens and read and sing and--

Sara pulled the lid up quickly. The trunk was empty. She looked at the side.

Oh, something else was there--hidden. Something that matched the trunk's wood-grain interior. It looked like a birdhouse. Once, it had been a house for creatures of the wind, and someone had cut square holes in it and had stretched strings inside so that the wind could blow through the box and play them.

"What's this?"

"It's a harp."

"A harp. I thought they were all gold and large and--"

"It's an Aeolian harp," said Stat. He pushed a button on the Speak and Spell again. It parroted again, "You are so precious to me."

"Stop that. Look at me. What was this used for?"

"You put it outside, and the wind plays it. My mother and I made it together."

"You did?"

"Yes." Stat's sad, jewel-like eyes looked down, and he bit his lip. Sara rubbed her hand across the nape of his neck, and he looked at her with pain and wonder.

His mother used to do this to him sometimes in the garden. They had made the Aelolian harp together because Stat's mother had lamented him never being able to play an instrument and her never having the time to teach him the viola. Sure, she spent plenty of time with him during the week, after school, in the garden. But on the weekends, she was off again to play with her quartet in other gardens and left Stat solo . . . with his Aelolian harp and the wind.

"Come on, Stat. Let's get out of here. You've been up here too long. You need to get out. You need--"

"How would you know what I need?"

This hurt. This was meant to hurt, and Sara knew it. She took her hand off his neck and said, "Come to the garden with me."

"And do what? Just sit there, not doing anything?"

"Oh, and it would be so terrible to sit there with me doing nothing. Oh, my mistake. I thought for some reason that I was important to you."

"You are," said Stat. But still he pushed the button on the reworked Speak and Spell. Again, it said, "You are so precious to me." It glowed green on his face making him look amphibious.

"Put it down, Stat."

"Put what down--"

"That thing you've made."

"Why?"

"Let it go, Stat. Let her go."

"You're calling my mom an it? Look, she was alive. She and I would do everything together. Dad was always so busy--"

"She was alive, Stat. Now, she's dead. This thing you've made, this isn't her. This thing is a painful memory."

Sara looked down at the Aeolian harp. She picked it up and hand-strummed it since no wind could reach the sealed-tight, pink insulated attic. No wind could reach to play it there. The wind was shut out, wasn't allowed in the dusty recesses.

"Let's go to the garden, Stat."

"If you mention that damn garden again I think I'll--"

Sara held back all her hurt and grabbed the Speak and Spell from Stat. He did not put up much of a fight with it. She threw it as hard as she could into the trunk. After the surrogate plastic mother hit the bottom, it muttered, "Precious. Precious. Precious." It was broken. Stat let out a murmur.

Sara held the harp in front of Stat.

"You and your mom made this."

"Yes." He looked down.

"Let's take it out to the garden, Stat."

"Why?"

Sara whispered, "Because . . . you are precious to me." Stat had not heard those words uttered from human lips since his mother died. They sounded different coming from a young girl. And they sounded different coming from a person instead of a machine. It was like mistaking an answering machine message for a real person, that was what he had been doing.

Stat became excited and pulled the hammock of its rungs.

"Hey, we can take this and put it between two trees?"

"Sure. Imagine the cool breeze." Sara smiled.

"Cold air chastises me," said Stat.

Sara, "Come on. Cold air will do you some good."

Sara carried the harp like a talisman before her to ward off whatever lay in the dark recesses of this attic.

Stat shrugged an agreement that he would follow her.

Stat looked behind him at the attic. The purple curtain was spread down. The Raggedy Andy doll collapsed on it.

Where Sara had thrown it in the trunk, the Speak and Spell muttered, "Precious. Precious. Precious!"

Stat grabbed the purple curtain and threw it over the trunk. Now, he could no longer hear its throes of electronic death. The Raggedy Andy doll looked at him and smiled. Stat smiled back and ran to catch up with Sara.

He could listen to the song of the wind now.

Let There Be Music:
The Aeolian Harp

I discover that music arose from something unseen as I ferret:
"He who makes trouble the wind will inherit."

And that fool became servant to one who was wise of heart
And of his own inheritance he would have no part.

So what did he, who labored for the wind, gain?
Beautiful music to soothe his great pain!

For once there was one whose heart was wise--
understanding no mortal could make melody arise--
And, by divine inspiration, the wise man
created another creation: The Aeolian Harp.

The wise man left the harp suspended for a season;
for this he had very sound reason:
One day the wind (the inheritance of his servant, the Fool)
was tossed away in anger
by the Fool as he did carp--
when he lost his cool--
Causing the wind, in its languor,
to vibrate against the strings of the harp
creating a lulling chime
for the duration of time.

So came into being what had originally been planned
with simply words of one command:
"Let there be music!"
And then there was music throughout the whole land.

--Nanette H. Lizaso

Magic is Everywhere by C.C. Merrell

Lover's Advice to a Fledgling Writer

Put away your thesaurus
And come to bed-
Lie down with poets.

--Delmar Brewington

Caution

As my hand leaves her shoulder
and slowly travels
to the small of her back,
and my breath mingles with hers,
I dare not speak a word,
for fear that she will
suddenly realize it is me
and back away.

--Clay Morton

Marbles and Tops by Lorenzo Williams

Architectural Black and White by Angela Minter

She looked forward to this time, like a thunderstorm, it meant something unspeakable. Everyday they would meet and traverse the path to the hummock that quickly arose out of the field, like a knock-knee of a cypress tree that had sprung from the smooth surface of a quiet swamp. They would not run, fearing to cut short the precious moments they held together, but would walk softly or, like today, slowly skip in joy. They would not touch, yet they were connected, for they both grasped tightly the handle of the object whose fulfillment had brought them together. The handle, an old rope, frayed and full of knots from attempts to reattach it, had been a safeguard to her, for if the handle were metal, like the bucket it transported, she was sure it would conduct the overwhelming charge she held for him, and like a bolt of lightning from heaven, would singe the sandy, soft hair she loved to watch in the wind. The pail, with the help of the wind, sensed the crest and the time of its employment and rocked in anticipation. Atop the crest sat the old well, the life giver. She was sure it had been utilized for countless years, and like the daily drawing of water, because it existed in a spot far enough from the homesteads not to be seen, yet close enough to evoke a chore, it had for ages drawn new generations from the local families that depended on it. They lowered the pail into the dark chasm, and again the well rewarded them for their faithfulness. He drew and she watched his arms work the rope that returned the bucket to them. She poured the precious water into their pail, and he drew, again and again, until the pail was satisfied. Again, with only twine to protect the boy, they shared the handle and started down the small hill. The pail was now heavy between them, and she watched in admiration as he bore the majority of the weight. She could hear the water within the bucket, sloshing and splashing softly, and she sighed deeply. She would never let go, she thought as she failed to watch a splash of water come out of the pail and blanket the grass beneath the boy's foot. She felt the bucket tremble and pull away from her. Looking quickly she saw the water rise out of the bucket and douse the rope, and in that instance the boy was gone from her side and was rolling end-over-end down the hill, an avalanche of skin and muscle. She teetered on that brink, like a high wire walker becoming dizzy at the numerous faces that peered and gasped, but could not balance the scales that had been tipped by the pail of water in her hand. Giving way to those scientific principles which held her, she spun head first, in similar fashion to the boy, all the while thinking she had caused his destruction. She finally came to a stop on her back, next to the moaning boy, who held his seared and ensanguined head, and still she held the wet twine with its bucket, shiny and steaming.

Touch Me Velvet

fill my canvas lightly
soft strokes of
flesh on flesh
leave marks that
you occasionally notice
tell me how even
bruises look lovely
on the whiteness
of my skin
so like pearls
like clouds
like spilled mild
love my landscape
roll on rosy color
beneath your fingers
blend in the faint
sheen of sweat with
the smudges of mascara
create shadow
bring to light
all my imperfections
use them as texture
the thinness of bone
the tautness of my back
as it arches beneath
your artist's hands
become mountains unexplored
my breathless cries become thunder
tears of release fall as rain
our joining is the river
overflooded with passion
and we become the hills and
valleys and rocks and trees
naturally

--Peyton Barnes

Guitar Blazing

Plucking the taunt string
to create a sigh of music,
a scream of melody,
a groan in harmony
fingers slide up the shaft
releasing tension
building speed
blazing the soul into freedom.
This is your voice
your moods
your passion
your Power.
It makes you behave,
it makes you naughty
like sweat on
naked skin it's
a part of you
and you of me
strung together tight
fit together with force;
the harmonious scream of meldoy
the wail of the
fined tuned guitar
that rocks
the soul.

--Kristina Snowden

Orwell's

I.
The dust from these books only draws us closer,
as we huddle together and tell great stories.
How the girl in the corner with two nose rings loves
Maya Angelou or how the guy with the Harley
Davidson bandanna wishes godzilla would eat the Snapple lady.

II.
It's the pull of leather jackets and the smell
of warm steam that draws us back each week,
or how a little spark of life seems to form each night.
Outside our doors the street mime, musician
or acrobat that performs welcome all who enter here.

III.
Now it's later, much later, when all life here slows down,
and worn and beaten chairs become as familiar as home.
Poets pursue Whitman and thumb through copies of Kerouac
over a steady chess board or a small-stake card game,
and even strange conversation seems perfectly normal.

IV.
It's how black is a familiar color and sideburns commonplace
and how each and every one of us builds his own little world.
When the mike passes through each hand we all grow dead silent
and, in the midst of a reading become thicker than thieves.

V.
It's the steep of rich accents and the tilt of a barrette,
the hum of an old monitor and a B movie on the tube.
It's feedback and dreams all wrapped into one package and
tied with a neat bow for all the neighborhood folks.
It's one moment for all of us short, simple and sweet
that makes us all feel we will never be alone.
It says to us, live, speak out, and express safe from fear.
It says that a hot cup of coffee can make us all warm.

--James Enelow