Tuesday, 11 February 2014

Playing Khachaturian in the Kitchen (sonnet)

The score, downloaded from the internet
and Sellotaped together in a train,
propped up by lentil jars, lest I forget
this tune I've loved so long, which might remain
with me in my head, but has a tendency
to elude my fingers, is slightly pink
in artificial light.  A redundancy
of rain has kept me in. I like to think
that this is why the dog decides to sing,
in order to express his gloominess,
to voice his soul's stirrings; my violin
speaks Russian rather well, with tenderness
(Appealing to all those who are discerning),
but the dog speaks with the greatest yearning.

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