Pianissimo
by: Billy Collins
At first,
I thought it meant
a really big piano.
Billy Collins knows music and jazz. I've seen him fiddling around on a piano in videos online.
Me? I took piano and organ lessons for almost 14 years. So, I know my way around music. My mother started me when I was in middle school because, believe it or not, I was a very compulsive kid, highly distractible, constantly in motion. My mind wouldn't stop. She thought it would teach me to sit still and concentrate. She was right.
And, many years later, I started earning money as a musician in different churches. I have my mother (and my wonderfully patient piano teacher) to thank for the extra income. Just this morning, I played for two different Lutheran worship services. Last night, I played a Catholic Mass.
In no way am I a gifted musician. I'm a musician who requires a LOT of practice to sound like I don't practice. My gift is writing, in particular poetry. Words have never been struggle for me. That doesn't mean I don't work constantly on my poems and stories and essays and blogs. I do. But it doesn't feel like work. It feels like a homecoming every time I open my journal.
I'm sure van Gogh felt the same way about oil painting. I like to think that the only time his restless mind and spirit settled was when he had a brush in his hand and an easel in front of him. Mozart was probably happiest sitting at a keyboard. And Emily Dickinson when she was scribbling away at midnight in her room.
Art (any kind) is balm in a world that just doesn't make sense sometimes.
Saint Marty always takes his daily dose of poetry.
Potato Eaters by van Gogh
by: Martin Achatz
I see a hair stuck
in the thick paint
of the canvas, wonder
if it's his eyelash,
whisker from his beard
or paintbrush, or maybe
from his landlady's tabby
prowling for mice
in his shabby room.
