Harpist
The gilt wing rests upon his shoulder.
The strings that are each feather-shaft,
Stripped down to their core
To reveal the sinew
Of each musical note,
Divide the world of his left
From his right.
And in the silence of that split
He brings his two spiders to meet
At the fingertips.
They glance at one another,
They reach out to touch,
But don't, and flirt.
Coquettish, their knees glitter as they dance,
Each against the other's underside.
Each movement and stride
Strikes a consonant or vowel
In the syllables of their dialogue.
Their dance is mutual persuasion,
The sublimation of their conversation,
And they are so in love.
By Frieda Hughes - for David Watkins
Published in her collection of poems; "The Stonepicker and
The Book of Mirrors"
Published Harper Perennial ISBN 978-0-06-056452-0
Painter
It's his dance.
He writes the music. He takes
His belly-crawl and adolescent stumble,
His last laugh and his marriages,
His son and his years alive,
And grinds them to powder
For his reds, blues and grays.
With his brush he makes each stroke
Sound on canvas taut as pregnant skin;
A perfect note. He gives
Each begging mute he paints
Its voice, he plucks their harp,
Each shape a rhythmic quote;
His thought-provoking symphonies
In every work of art.
By Frieda
Hughes
Published in her collection of poems; "The Stonepicker and The
Book of Mirrors"
Published Harper Perennial ISBN 978-0-06-056452-0