I’m not a poet as you’ll discover soon enough if you continue reading. I wrote this — my first and definitely last — attempt at poetry during my cancer treatment when I was deeply depressed. I thought of the nagging feeling I’d always had that something elusive was just beyond my grasp if I could only find it. I wondered if I lived to be an old woman if I’d still be searching for that phantom deficiency in my life. Or if I myself might be that deficiency.
Melodies As Yet Unheard
Before taking her first faltering steps
She paused to listen
Or at least it seemed that way later
Looking back and trying to reconstruct
What it must have been like
In that early version of her existence,
The beginning of the metamorphosis
Between the Who she was
And the Who she is,
If indeed there is any difference.
Even then the music played
Though not often and never very long.
Silent refrains ringing indelibly upon her soul,
Anticipated really, more than heard.
But she knew it must be out there somewhere,
Or at least that it ought to be.
Her steps grew longer and then slower
And still she strained to
Catch the stilled cadence of different drums
Performing melodies as yet unheard
To lead her God knows where,
Ever further from herself and her own kind.
Once she swore she almost caught an echo
Left by a fading note,
But a scoffing silence
Hinted it was never really there.
Even now the music plays
Though her ears have no heart to hear.
Mute melodies reverberate a now hollow truth:
To orchestrate one’s life is not to stop
And marvel at some unfamiliar theme,
But to compose the score yourself.