10-29-2011, 09:03 AM
v. 4
(same as V. 3, only cut off the -ing on leanne's suggestion. additionally, added "little guitar" to S.4. to make the subject more clear)
changes:
-removed first line
S. 8 removed "the" and "its"
Final stanza: edited last lines
A mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turn
like the hands
of an unwound clock;
your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs,
you sit with the patience of
a river
in a torn canyon.
Does the stairwell
remember your songs,
little guitar,
how they would course
up and down the banister
like an usher in a hall,
trebles floating to the mirror
watching themselves
as basses slog around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase?
Would walls inch closer
the moment a string stirred from sleep,
or floorboards beg
to carry your bag
when brought on display,
a fire
trapped in a maple cage?
Or has everyone forgotten your voice,
as some forget faces
after years of distance; did you notice
even my surprise when I found you here
put your neck in my arms
and heard a note as it tumbled
down your throat?
v. 2
changes: too many!
- first few stanzas were erased, as well as the Jane character.
- changed treble notes to trebles (billy!)
-changed completely stanza on "tracing"
-last few stanzas erased
+ added stanza 3
+ new concluding stanzas
Reserved to
a mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turn
like the hands
of an unwound clock;
your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs,
you sit with the patience of
a river
in a torn canyon.
Does the stairwell
remember your songs,
how they would course
up and down the banister
like an usher in a hall,
trebles floating to the mirror
watching themselves,
basses slogging around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase?
Would the walls inch closer
the moment a string stirred from its sleep,
or the floorboards beg
to carry your bag
when you were brought on display,
a fire
trapped in a maple cage?
Or has everyone forgotten your voice,
as some forget faces
after years of distance; did you notice
Even my surprise when I found you here
ran to your side,
put your neck in my arms
and tried to squeeze one more word
out of a body
already splintered dry.
-------------------------------------
Original
Guitar
opening the door to a friend’s house
we saw you,
Little Guitar,
sulking in the sunlight
of that tiny, aged, white room.
My friend creaking upstairs for her wallet,
I returned to you,
your mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turned
like the hands
of an unwound clock;
your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs.
I wondered
if this house
remembered your songs,
tracing, with my hand, the route
they would have glided through the room—
treble notes floating to the hallway mirror
watching themselves
as basses slog around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase.
Their footprints I could almost see,
but before I could stir one string,
Jane had returned with the bus fare
and I could think
of no reason to stay
to convince her the house was no tomb,
but an audience, sentenced to the silence
of a song without a voice.
(same as V. 3, only cut off the -ing on leanne's suggestion. additionally, added "little guitar" to S.4. to make the subject more clear)
changes:
-removed first line
S. 8 removed "the" and "its"
Final stanza: edited last lines
A mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turn
like the hands
of an unwound clock;
your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs,
you sit with the patience of
a river
in a torn canyon.
Does the stairwell
remember your songs,
little guitar,
how they would course
up and down the banister
like an usher in a hall,
trebles floating to the mirror
watching themselves
as basses slog around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase?
Would walls inch closer
the moment a string stirred from sleep,
or floorboards beg
to carry your bag
when brought on display,
a fire
trapped in a maple cage?
Or has everyone forgotten your voice,
as some forget faces
after years of distance; did you notice
even my surprise when I found you here
put your neck in my arms
and heard a note as it tumbled
down your throat?
v. 2
changes: too many!
- first few stanzas were erased, as well as the Jane character.
- changed treble notes to trebles (billy!)
-changed completely stanza on "tracing"
-last few stanzas erased
+ added stanza 3
+ new concluding stanzas
Reserved to
a mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turn
like the hands
of an unwound clock;
your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs,
you sit with the patience of
a river
in a torn canyon.
Does the stairwell
remember your songs,
how they would course
up and down the banister
like an usher in a hall,
trebles floating to the mirror
watching themselves,
basses slogging around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase?
Would the walls inch closer
the moment a string stirred from its sleep,
or the floorboards beg
to carry your bag
when you were brought on display,
a fire
trapped in a maple cage?
Or has everyone forgotten your voice,
as some forget faces
after years of distance; did you notice
Even my surprise when I found you here
ran to your side,
put your neck in my arms
and tried to squeeze one more word
out of a body
already splintered dry.
-------------------------------------
Original
Guitar
opening the door to a friend’s house
we saw you,
Little Guitar,
sulking in the sunlight
of that tiny, aged, white room.
My friend creaking upstairs for her wallet,
I returned to you,
your mane of cobwebs
wrapping a head of pegs that turned
like the hands
of an unwound clock;
your hollow body
abandoned by vibration
and the spiders that called you home, only
to starve beneath your ribs.
I wondered
if this house
remembered your songs,
tracing, with my hand, the route
they would have glided through the room—
treble notes floating to the hallway mirror
watching themselves
as basses slog around
the lower shelves
of the bookcase.
Their footprints I could almost see,
but before I could stir one string,
Jane had returned with the bus fare
and I could think
of no reason to stay
to convince her the house was no tomb,
but an audience, sentenced to the silence
of a song without a voice.
Written only for you to consider.
