Stravinsky the Poet in Me
My poem is not my poem. It belongs to Igor Stravinsky from his ballet “The Rite of Spring” that moved inside my being and wrote the words:
“Adoration of the Earth,” the first part
took me into another world from the start,
lifting me up with my feet still on the ground,
bringing me up into an exotic ethereal sound,
telling me to forget myself left behind
as magicians do to bamboozle my mind,
pulling my strings as do master puppeteers,
touching my heart and invoking my tears,
dissonant, soulful sounds stirring up my soul,
ripping up my inhibitions as I lose control,
moving me from the real through time and space,
uprooted me from my world without a trace,
stole my identity and left me with no name
and deemed me a poet of which I became,
a writer with nothing from me but all of him,
all the “Rite of Spring” in my blood and skin,
my fingers that moved the pen in haste
but he who transformed my appetite and taste
from the prosaic to a sphere where I upward climbed
to the world of dreams and proficiency combined,
pouring his thoughts into my empty mind
making me a genius of the poetic kind,
from he who moves my fingers that write my poem,
and the me who marvels at how I’ve grown,
as I became a puppet on his melodious string,
the me that emerged from his “Right of Spring.”
Robert L. Martin
robertlmartin.com
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