The Conservatory​​

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Gothic, century-turned stone like copper
clay, perfected toast. I sit on rounded
corner, Godfather collecting rent, souls.
My spiked wrought iron fence posts, menacing,
hold melodies inside forevermore.
It is here the living dance with the dead.
Fingers shuttle Chopin on piano,
black and white keys like fast paper planes in
the dark. Histrionics of soprano,
Queen of the Night, shoot painstaking high notes
straight to Heaven, Hell for my ears these years.
Clacking metronomes shoot off shelves, tired of
keeping time. No one listens anyway.
I’m the one who says who can stay and go.

Death and the Maiden, forced rest between
each stringed chord, then a resurrection.
People follow my sirens’ call. They twirl
endlessly in minuet with the dead,
unfurling together in orchestra.
Violins, oboes, timpani, French horns,
Stradivari and Guarneri cellos,
enter stages left and right, all silent,
filmy grey ghosts next to their counterpart.
The choir in black files in from all sides, sent
from afterlife. Beethoven—no longer
deaf—enters, looks toward God (me, really)
drops the baton on his Ninth Symphony.
Small death start playing onward joyously.

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By Jennifer Newell

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Having previously performed as a violinist on Broadway early in her career, Jennifer L. Newell subsequently has spent over 20 years as an executive in both the nonprofit and corporate sectors. In addition to writing, she loves hiking, cooking, and trying to keep up with her dogs. She holds a Bachelor of Music degree in Violin Performance from the Eastman School of Music and a Master of Business Administration from the Jack Welch Management Institute at Strayer University.

 

LinkedIn: jlnewell

Facebook: jennifer.newell.1232