I could imagine myself an orchestral conductor, but there are many things that must be trusted to the players themselves. Something like Rubato, within a musical phrase, comes to mind. And then, in a flash, it’s passed. Reflect on that with these poems.
Matters of what’s stolen in the course of a life – time, affection, even a glimpse – give flexibility to the rhythm of these poems. In music, the technique’s called Rubato. Blame the Italians, if you will, though I won’t go there in this collection.
All along, I’ve felt a ping of guilt when taking time to write poetry or fiction. As if I’ve been stealing from others, even when I was living alone. Rubato, in Italian, means theft, although in music it’s applied as a way of making a phrase more flexible and ultimately sensual. And here it enters, as a dimension of my life journey.
What, then, is honest and what comes across as fake in a deep desire for love and affirmation?
I’ll let these poems sing and shout and lament on their own. I’ve somehow survived their transitions.
Once upon a time, I was one of those whose body seemed to end at his neck. I lived almost entirely in my head. Intellect was everything.
And then I made contact with a host of previously foreign sensations – things I’d previously merely viewed. The exchange, for the most part, was marvelous. Let’s start with the feel of my lover’s skin to my touch. Or her lips on mine.
In time, she pointed me toward yoga, which really opened my inner vision. Much of the process I describe in my novel Ashram, starting with the response to the direction, “Touch your toes.”
The poems of my newest collection, Foreign Exchange, continue to probe the universe of surfaces – as well as much that lurks underneath.