Sprung in circles so vast
torn trauma bends fast and lasts
so last to speak and speak to last
pathos shielded by rats, alas?
She leans over and tells her tale
we’re old man, don’t go down our trail…
troth through our grief your face so pale,
frail, watch your tail, won’t you inhale?
So pathos at last prevail,
rats drawn to the horror of folktales
tales of folks they claim to know so well
tales that ripple; tales that read like braille
Almighty temperament, in lack of rationale!
circles dissolve and entail –
trapped traumas only through music set sail
ring out the bells again,
won’t you understand?
Note from poet:
This piece draws inspiration from one activity at SPARC 2025, a late-night gathering where instructors shared poignant chapters of their past. The atmosphere in Lassen Hall, our lodging, grew heavy with a serious air during the storytelling. Afterward, as attendees formed smaller groups, I found myself drawn to the singing circle. A stoic admirer of classical music, I was unfamiliar with the songs they performed, skillfully accompanied by guitarists adept at sight-reading. Yet, the melancholic melodies, intertwined with the evening’s traumatic tales, stirred a deep well of sentiment within me.