A Poem Deemed Worthy

The Music of Me

a sestina

they are words on a page, and all that jazz,

high trumpet notes that ease away my blues,

like notes on a staff, I instrument these lyrics,

passionately, they play me out like a symphony,

ink stained crescendo, that vibrates against my soul,

they groove, to a carefree rhythm

but at times, I find myself just trying to keep the rhythm,

they become a chest cratered wail that drowns out my jazz,

mood bebop, a beat box that breaks against my soul,

the deep bass line that incorporates my blues,

emphatically, they echo life’s bittersweet symphony,

I cave against the pressure that springs from these lyrics,

because there is blood, sweat, and tears deep-rooted in these lyrics,

they mirror match the knock of my heartbeat’s own rhythm,

and at times, when I feel like Schubert’s eighth symphony,

they complete me, retuned, like improvisational jazz,

like the ghetto knows cages, they understand my blues,

gospel notes scream from the pages, “it is well with my soul”,

and I can feel them embedded deep within my soul,

like God placed them here when He wrote out my lyrics,

rainbow covenant, after the flood, my reds, yellows, and blues,

like a dove in the distance, they are my most peaceful rhythm,

bringing rest to my stress, syncopated like jazz,

I feel them pouring out, a splash of notes in my symphony,

but even Beethoven couldn’t match odes of joy found within this symphony,

a heaven-sent staccato bop that clings in the reaches of my soul,

where I am craftsman to the ink; and they coolly scribe Miles across my jazz,

that move me to delight, until each of my smiles become these lyrics,

each of my hopes ring through these words, all of my dreams played out in rhythm,

and I can hear them, distinctly ringing in me, just as Billie could hear these blues,

so no holiday, no vacation, whether melancholy grey, or sky lit with bright blues,

they are a gift that God has lent to me, and as conductor, I’ll direct their symphony,

uniquely crafted, well polished, using message as their rhythm,

hoping everywhere I send them, they are felt down in the soul,

wholeheartedly, like an angel’s whisper, I hope my pen leaks out these lyrics,

so they become something far greater, like my own poetic jazz

these words on a page,

rhythm, blues, and all that jazz;

my soul’s symphony.

[End Poem]

Oh my gosh, this was difficult to write.  I've been trying to write a sestina for a long time.  But I am so proud of myself for finishing it.  I chose to go with a haiku as the envoy, because it just seemed to come quicker than a tercet.  I love different forms of poetry, and this is perhaps the most difficult fixed verse form there is.  So hooray to me!!!  Hope you all enjoyed it.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet