all poems and audio ©Mary Rae



Galli-Curci (1889-1963)
by Mary Rae

Your voice was delicate beyond compare.
Amelita, were you lovely, too?
You must have let the rain run down your hair
to water earth with music as you do.
Did you feel the sunlight on your skin
and seek the solitude of wooded shade?
I’ve heard it in your voice once and again,
and even understand why you made
the “sweet” in “Home, Sweet Home,” so very bright.
It was the nature of your smiling throat
and the way your eyes would fill with light.
Amelita, is life just a boat
that lets you steer through waves of deepening blue,
then sings through seas forever without you?




Caruso
by Mary Rae

I've heard it said your voice was great because
it's rare for notes so sweet to have an edge,
and that listening to your high notes was
like the thrill of standing on a ledge
where one false step would mean a spiral fall
past blurring windows lit to catch the eyes,
past fragrant trees whose branches seemed to call,
past the garden wall in slow surprise,
where time would deepen and grow wide,
past crocuses whose tender shoots would brush
against red cheeks, before the final slide
to earth: And as if that weren't enough,
no one listening could ever know
if you were holding on, or letting go.



Young Harpist
by Mary Rae

He lays his fingers on the strings as though
anticipation were the same as sound,
and in his quiet beginning he has found
a secret joy akin to sparkling snow
remembered in the blaze of life below
a tropic sun.  He's only five and bound
to giggle, wiggle, twist and clown around,
to stray from effort, letting the quiet flow
of shouting friends and balls bounced in the street
release him from the lovely spell of strings.
His lessons must be short to help the heart
make room for all the beauty it will meet
somewhere between his little friends and art,
and fingers waiting for the note that sings.