by Lydia Solodiuk
It’s Friday night, and I only want to be with you.
I share you with others, countless have sat by you and manipulated
All your moving pieces.
You understand me, you’re complex and varied
And sometimes don’t work as you should
Just like me.
We sing together,
my chest full of air with your air chests.
We make music together in the darkness.
My consoling console.
Console: verb; to alleviate or lessen the grief, sorrow, or disappointment of; give solace or comfort
Console: noun; a desk-like structure containing the keyboards, pedals, etc., by means of which an pipe organ is played.
I wrote this poem to explore the emotional relationship musicians can have with their instrument. We spend a lot of time (much of it alone) working with a particular machine in order to make particular sounds. It's a rather strange pastime, when you think of it like that. But for many musicians, we've moved past the machine manipulation stage of our musical studies into this other state of emotional connection which is what this poem explores.
Are you a musician? Have you experienced this with your instrument? Comment below!