a vestige of thought...

I am not a huge fan of poetry that lacks meter and just about anything else that generally sets writings apart as poems (rhyme, alliteration, etc), but for Literary Analysis I had to write a poem (actually, it's extra credit) in a fashion similar to that of Frank O'Hara in A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island. I did not particularly care for this poem, though others in my class did ("It spoke to me..."). But I suppose that's a matter of personal preference. Anyway, here is what I wrote:

I heard the whisper early one morning; and again,
softly,
that night, from the case in the corner.

"“Remember when you really played?
When your eyes read
more than notes and your fingers
ressed more than strings and your hand
pulled more than a bow?"

"“Yes, I remember."

"“So do I.
You played more than music. It was
passion and grace,
you'’re audible heart."

"“But I still play,"” I said.
"“Every day,
nearly.
I still play."

"“That book you hold; yes, the blank one-
there.
It stole you from me. What you used to say
through me, you say in there, with
empty, insufficient, words.
Why?"”

"“I-"

"“You are frustrated. Your words,
long and lavish, pretentiously preposterous,
are a false echo of my song: too silent to express
your soul. Don'’t
forget me.

I am here so that you
may make music of emotion
when words of feeling fail."