Janet Kenny
THE DISAPPEARANCE
Something has gone. Heaven knows how we can tell
those of you who didn't know it, that it is dead?
Something that some of us saw, simply has fled
leaving things looking the same. But notice the smell?
Notice the lustreless light, unresonant sound—
look at the spiritless trudge, pedestrian speed.
Hasn't the music lost something that answered a need?
Something we valued has shrivelled and cannot be found.
Not long ago everyone of us knew it was here.
None of us mentioned it, but we all danced to its beat,
breathed in its oxygen, confident that it was near
lending a lilt and a lift to our confident feet.
When they removed it we didn't say anything, just
stood there and watched as they dismantled trust.
NIGHT VISION
I'm told that I may lose my sight one day
and though I pray I'll have the sense to die
before I have dispensed with either eye
or bade sunlight goodbye, I won't betray
my inner vision, which well knows the way
a hill curves, and a spotless bird can fly,
illuminated, pale against the sky.
These purities of line are here to stay.
Like Samson Agonistes and Borges
I'll clasp the velvet curtain and sustain
my certainty of purpose. Spend my days,
complacent that my senses will explain
that nothing ages, nothing old decays,
but stays immaculate within my brain.
THE RECITAL
They have asked me what it is to sing—
I struggle to explain it's like a prayer,
that moment on the stage before you share
whatever waits inside you. Like some spring
that wells and inundates your mind with pure
strong, flowing sound, connected to a dream
from someone else's sleep. You join their stream,
and they possess your will. You must be sure
that what you do comes from another place
and from another time. Yours is the trust
to bring a dormant poet face to face
with living spirits, shake away the dust.
And when belief enlivens every note,
then genius speaks unaided from your throat.
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