Two Poems by Susan Haifleigh

by Susan Haifleigh

The Pianist

Walking down cobbled streets

daffodils blooming in tight circlets

around trees with grated feet

cutting knifelike through

the city noise, it summoned me

façade faces line the boulevard

they hear it too,

I tilt my head, listening intently

the sound building up steam

struggling to make sense

of the tune, one key pressed

closely after another

concentration on cadence,

a ghostly sheet of music

forms in my head

deciphering each line

transmitting it to the

imagined page

the refrain strengthens,

the direction becomes

more pronounced

singing out like perched

songbirds, peering through pale

pink dogwood blossoms

the edge of a silken drapery

catches, blowing gently

in a tall open window above

just beyond the branches,

the sound’s author is discovered

yet not discovered

I stand rooted in place

until the last note settles,

I walk on altered.

New York in the Margins

I recognized you first

in the reflection of the bus window

moving through the tunnel

and across the bridge,

grit, grime, noise and chaos

become you.

That uneven line, seen

from afar, a shining sky

in silhouette against

your brick, block, glass and stone,

you called to me in book,

page and image, drawing

your silhouette over and over

in the margins of my textbooks

drawn like a moth to your light

and your darkness, to walk

wide eyed down your ancient

cobbled streets

surrounded by humanity

strains of music, laughter

and horns blaring, I am so much

more in your context, the hands,

hearts and minds that built you

sing out to me in every corbel,

doorway, cornice and stair step

your beauty inspires, pulls me

toward you, in you I find myself

drawing my own edges, understanding

my own blueprint, I recognize myself

in this drawing, reflecting you.