One Last Effort to Be an Orchestra
One last effort to be an orchestra
By: Christell Roach
I.
Before anger gets the beat out of me, I will attempt to hold onto my sanity:
By letting flow Afro-Cuban melodies, that breech barriers of double bar endings.
I will abandon this classical stoicism and grab hold of the essence in culture;
the essence – in our skins, the essence – in our tongues…
When we pray, we let our fears dance with our aspirations. We jazz singers,
swing our hopes up yonder! We bend brass instruments, we snap cello strings,
and choke the soul out of our voices – just to be worthy of the altars on God’s ears.
The most Holy language is music.
II.
The percussionist has finally tapped into his inner swing. He is no longer
a skinny dipper drowning in a fools’ tune. He has joined the beat-keepers,
he has saved his soul – he knows now that heaven is full of varying musicians
in different skins.
God is a composer, and his angels are interpretations within our sheet music.
We music makers shed our beings behind microphones, as we chisel praise
out of our bones
We root out Santería chants, urban outcries, African spirituals, and the shamans
in our violins – when we sing behind these instruments. This is a congregation
of worshippers. This is exposing the hidden harmonies on our callouses.
This is musical piecing of varying musicians in different skins… like heaven.
I.
There is an orchestra crawling beneath my skin. The beats are unchained.
My heart is a jazz combo with 50 bars of silence. I am shackled to the music.
I cannot sing to you through slurred notes anymore. I cannot be played,
I am not a cello . I don’t have bass strings to filter your rhythm out of my veins –
my bones are immobile time-signatures… The jukebox in my heart is jammed,
it is stuck on overplay – my heart is playing your tune over and over again –
and you still claim you don’t know how to play heart strings.
You motif – you fool! I just wanted to interlace my fingers – vibrato-ridden,
and dainty – in the hands of the jagged devotee cursed with his music making.
My heart beat out a core-wrought rhythm when you said you loved me.
You claimed you adored the many cultures in my voice. The percussionist
in you was so versed in time-keeping, that he didn’t even noticed he beat
the heart out of me for his melody.
I thought touching souls was essential, in order for us to compose, in order
for us to coincide our ear-flattering atrocities – so that fragments of us
wouldn’t be suspended from higher octaves, and un-tied notes wouldn’t be
lingering in our palms.
This is a plead to God to please wipe away these unwanted feelings... this is too much interpretation for me.
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