The wordless transmission
between the artist and the audience.
Drifting aimlessly from the record
player, the sounds of the improvising
musician. Scuffs, scratches and scrapes,
where is he going with this?
In the inferno of disquiet
faintly emerges a sound
that is not the inferno. The
musician nurtures it, gives it
space, lets it grow. The inferno
fades to dust leaving the
improv to stand alone,
coruscating from the record
player, gradually fluttering
away into the air.
Inspired by Italo Calvino’s final passage in Invisible Cities and Motoharu Yoshizawas improvisation “Music 4” on the album “Play Unlimited” (P.S.F).
Honks, squawks, screeches
blow from the horns
rising and fading.
Feedback is welcomed, particularly on the middle poem. I am not sure if I have used the inspiration of Calvino correctly and have instead lifted and altered his words slightly. Any feedback on this and all the poems would be greatly appreciated.