I
The voice soars into the church vault,
Floating through the air our Lord to exalt,
As the eagle soars on extended wings,
My heart pounds wildly as my voice sings.
The boy’s choir appears a hundred strong,
Standing behind the altar in a dense throng,
Multiple voices projecting like the voice of one,
The communal sound rises in unison to the sun.
II
For my part, I step forward and stand alone.
I am chosen to sing solo because of my tone.
This is an honor in which anyone takes pride,
But I live with a fear that is difficult to hide.
Ave Maria, gratia plena; hail Mary, full of grace,
The music displays color as if drained from my face.
Youthful innocence enhances the purity of sound,
Smoking incense fills the air with a fragrance profound.
III
Terror seizes me; but the voice makes its way.
I have a fear of being singled out every Sunday.
The chorus falls silent, I step out from the crowd.
In my heart, I feel as though covered in a shroud,
While my voice sings thru the song not yet done,
A voice considered unique and comparable to none.
The voice has a quality of sweetness all its own.
A rare stylus with the silvery light of a moonstone.
IV
One thought prevails as I opened my mouth to praise:
I must overcome my fear and allow my voice to raise.
I tell myself: God in heaven looks down upon my endeavor;
He will take me in His arms, to be His forever and ever.
As I stand out from the choir, standing totally alone,
My red hair bristling and for my sins ready to atone,
I take a deep breath pondering the mystery all the while,
How a waif like myself can sing with a voice in such style.
V
With my voice floating as one with the scent of smoking candles,
Attired in a white surplice, purple gown and leather sandals.
The candles stirring eerie shadows that flickered and flared,
Across the faces of the congregation who listened and stared.
My heart beating furiously, I must have been a sight to behold,
Arms hanging lengthwise, my head heavenward trying to be bold.
This is only one brief moment in my life to have and to hold,
But every Sunday I withdrew from the crowd as if my soul could unfold.
VI
Suddenly, I was no longer myself, my voice became my sole presence,
Soaring aloft to the ceiling and taking with it my soul and essence.
From inside a well in my being poured forth mystical waters of sound,
That rose all the way to heaven before falling back down to the ground.
The music of my voice riding the melody as if on the back of a tiger,
Sacred emotions wild, thrilling and uplifting beyond human desire.
This was prayer’s sweetest moment, floating thru ears and lifting on high,
Where a child’s voice, sotte voce, meets celestial rhythms deep in the sky.
A finely detailed treatise on the fear that is so intrinsic to creation, be it with voice, pen, brush, baton or chisel. And, in all modes of the imagination finding purchase with form and substance, an ethereal presence is always available for the asking. Like this a lot.
While I have always had a good voice, I was never called upon to sing a solo. Thank goodness, because it wasn't until my college speaking class that I began to overcome my fear of speaking, singing for performing before any kind of audience without screwing up my otherwise fairly good ability, if not, talent.
As I read I thought about the power of the human voice as in the Gregorian chants to uplift the spirit into another realm. I guess that's what all the singing and music is about the churches going back to primitive tribal rituals using music and song.
For you, as a mere child, to uphold tradition with your single voice must have indeed been very heavy on you for the responsibility required. Still, as I came to the last stanza like I've heard so many talented people describe, you found your voice and while delivering, lost all fear and rose to the occasion.
you see, what the beads of memories can do with us when so nicely conscious that it's hard to distinguish from reality, telling the past from another temporal dimension. . . a rosary of imagery is always the strongest point of your poetry, John. Thank you for skillful shuffling with images, producing some more. . . Cheers, alex
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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As I read I thought about the power of the human voice as in the Gregorian chants to uplift the spirit into another realm. I guess that's what all the singing and music is about the churches going back to primitive tribal rituals using music and song.
For you, as a mere child, to uphold tradition with your single voice must have indeed been very heavy on you for the responsibility required. Still, as I came to the last stanza like I've heard so many talented people describe, you found your voice and while delivering, lost all fear and rose to the occasion.
Bravo!
Ron