Laura J. Braverman
(Lebanon-Austria)
SONATA in A, Op.69
I.
A needle lands on turning disc
with scratch
sharp and quick,
traces wide black turns while slowly
thin lids close.
See a woman—her profile dimly lit.
So it begins then.
This is the breath that stillness breathes.
She is wrapped in it, suspended in a state
before sound—
until—up from the deep,
flow the first strains—
the long pulls on four taut strings.
Frail hands trail the arc even as they rest
with gentle tremors on well-worn knees.
The woman smiles, listens—as with an ear
for earth’s murmurs.
This is the breath that beginnings breathe.
II.
A dance is an agreement—
set within the realm of arms entwined.
Two will stay bound for moments,
or years—until the dance is done.
Until the dancers part and cross the room.
She danced one night,
the eyes across burdened by a question.
He leaned in, took her with him—
steps forward—back, and a pause,
then straight across the floor again.
She followed but met his stare
with hesitation,
for fear of yielding.
Was Yes a promise of surrender—
or an invocation?
III.
A slow summer afternoon—girl
of twelve counts clouds, white
folds of a dress
tucked beneath her knees,
narrow legs traced with fine threads,
blue and green.
Clouds shift. Winds rise. Tones fall
in lilting strides.
House breathes—
windows, doors—open, close.
Bodies drift in, out.
Feet cross the grass. Little sisters run
in circles round the oak. The secret
of not knowing propels their legs.
Girl smiles—the late amber light
sings. Of missing those
not yet loved,
morning falling on a cheek,
of hearing tides in breath
of sleep.
IV.
The needle lifts—separates
from spinning black and moves to edge’s
rest. Thin lids open.
Soon the tall clock will strike—
strike the silence after sound.
So it begins then.
COUNTERPOINT
Sestina
Things dance in this world—circling round, as in a fugue.
Divergent forces in a harmony of voices,
turn back to meet beginnings with an end. Water
currents swirl, stream—a ceaseless movement over pebbles
rolling on the riverbed. And I, I stretch in long glides—
swim and dive, suspended in the deep—reach towards flight.
I make my body long—my spine, my limbs, extend in flight,
as braided strains circle and give chase in a fugue.
Tones resound and repeat—a cello calls. I glide
down, down, to indigo and quiet—beyond sound, voice.
There, I reach out to shelter rounded pebbles
in my hand. Tightly, I hold on. Above me is only water.
What does loss leave behind? Can I transform, with water’s
help, my dazed sorrow? I will stir it towards an arching flight—
over salt tears and salt seas, or sweet rivers with their pebbles.
I reach out to grasp cold earth. Tightly, I hold on. The fugue
sounds the dirge: We place your ashes in the dark. While the voices
of trees pronounce: Though we bury ashes, Spirit glides.
I reach out to touch the box filled with pale ash. Wind glides
through oak, birch, maple, pine. Candles flicker; no water
will put out these flames. I draw tightly in. Your voice
comes back: now gravel-edged, then caught in humor’s flight.
Can I still call? Will you come back, as the voices of a fugue?
Water answers in endless progress, streaming over pebbles.
Fingertips reach, skim the edge of riverbed and pick a pebble.
Mountain turns to pebble, blood to ash. So your spirit glides,
free to wander over peaks. Free to meet me in the fugue.
I will see you swim again—slow, steady—through the water.
Absence joins with what is found. Chant of trees, flight
of birds, changing winds—all give your absence voice.
I stand here now, above your grave, and hear my voice,
as if detached. I wish the trees could speak instead. Or a pebble
on the soil perhaps, a lasting anchor to your final flight.
Now I place my hand on wet earth, and pray to glide
among the worlds—of rock, of wind, of water.
I pray to hear your voice again, woven in the fugue.
We go down. A voice must call. We end—we glide,
through the dark, far river. Pebbles dance with water.
We stretch towards flight, hear the strains of a fugue.
Two Doors
Room of climbing trees
green blades, twigs, wind—wordless hymn
you must choose your way
Midway between four walls, I stand.
No windows in this place with floor of packed
sweet-scented loam and wizened leaves—
no roof, but columns rise—
trunks of spruce, larch, rowan, beech.
My hands spread wide can touch
the rugged skin of two twigged souls,
so close are they,
so many.
Far above, a canopy of green, close knit.
Only slivers of light steal through
to my bare feet. The edges of leaves prick
against my soles.
Through branches, I see a weathered door,
and when I turn, one more behind.
I know the names of these two doors, do you?
The one in front: let go.
The one in back: hold on.
What is this letting go?
An overworked command—words tossed round,
wrung out,
so they mean nothing anymore.
Yet, here stand the doors, with their changeless names.
So, how then? What?
This letting go—I could just as well command
a new shoot: bloom! Why don’t you? Now!
The tall green souls murmur. Do you have enough
of pain? Let go.
If not—stay taken with your yearning,
enchanted with being broken.
Hold on.
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BIO
Laura J. Braverman studied fine art and apparel design at Rhode Island School of Design, and worked internationally in apparel for many years. In addition to painting, she now focuses on writing, having completed a writer’s certificate in creative nonfiction with Stanford University. She worked with nonfiction writer Sven Birkerts at the Bennington College graduate writing seminars, has taken numerous courses in poetry and essay with the New School, and worked with poet James Arthur. Her work has appeared in the prose anthology Mountain Stories, and the poetry journals Live Encounters, The BeZINE, Mediterranean Poetry, and is forthcoming in California Quarterly.