Photograph by Richard Helyar
Yes, we were right to tell him
no. He was unnuanced,
slung in a stooping habit
between the crossbeam of
his arms. I watched his fingers
flubber the strings; looked at the
black rind on his fingernails.
Which isn't fair, I know.
In future, I will share
a playlist; a philosophy,
propounding… what? Rhythm.
Flux. Contrareity: the rhythm
within the rhythm; that drag you
can't quite hear - the moment when
the wind drops on a cliff and you
can hear the voices lurking in the
wind. If rhythm was a liquid then
a voice would be its grain. Guitars;
organs - they ride it and then become it;
it's all, all of it, rhythm, which is nuance,
which is everything.
Pat O'Malley is an unpublished poet.