Literary Organs
Not all canaries sing when first brought home.
Each morning over coffee my wife plays
a tape for Kimo, hoping he will learn.
Roulades and trills spill from the speaker as
a trained bird from another time and place,
singing above a Hammond organ’s drone,
counterpoints a tired La Paloma.
Confused at first by this tutorial,
the bird swells his feathers and looks askance
(whether from pride or fear I cannot tell).
But piqued by our premeditated ploy,
his throat unlooses, scolding into form
the time-stored variations of his kind,
both amative and territorial.
Hammonds were what my father used to sell.
His stockinged feet danced on the pedal board,
grounding a Bach toccata in a blur.
This agile bass, a circus feat, startled
the rural flocks — and wowed the ministers.
Such stooping to the crowd he came to loathe,
though pocketing commissions on each sale.
Lately a well-intentioned millionaire,
who could have left her fortune to her cat,
endowed a magazine for poetry,
whose La Paloma all can whistle to.
When tenured poets flex their nimble feet
and get the art of twittering down cold,
perhaps we’ll know the anguish Kimo sings.
— Frank Stokes
Frank “Kit” Stokes retired after teaching English for many
years at Eastern Illinois University. This poem is from his latest chapbook,
The Blind Photographer and Other Snapshots, available for $3. For details,
e-mail him at Kitster@motion.net.
People’s Poetry accepts poems on any subject, but ones that deal with issues
of local interest are encouraged. Send yours to Books and Poetry Editor Corrine
Frisch c/o Illinois Times, P.O. Box 5256, Springfield, IL 62705, or to
cfrisch@illinoistimes.com with
“People’s Poetry” in the subject line.
This article appears in Nov 4-10, 2004.
