Sad Sonata Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

Sad Sonata



Strains of sadness sift through my window.
Someone is bowing a cello strongly, sweetly, slowly
Sending out sorrow with each lethargic stroke across the strings.

What could be more melancholy than a solo performer,
Sitting alone in her room on a stiff-backed chair,
Purging her sense of despair by composing a dirge,
A requiem to love unrequited,
A sonata to her solitary existence,
As her sole companion, a motley-colored calico cat, void of beauty or poise,
Rubs itself against the legs of the ungiving, unforgiving chair?

And yet what could be more poignant, more picturesque
Than a frail young woman, bent over her instrument of choice,
A hollow, mother-goddess-shaped piece of wood that she holds between her legs
And fingers, up and down its spine, as she strokes it lovingly,
Making it moan and purr.
As a tattered kitty-cat moans and purrs in turn at her feet?

This is a world of women comforting women,
Women bringing forth beauty from women.

There are myriad melodies of love,
Some catchy and carefree,
Some stately and ceremonial,
Some joyous and prayerful.

But there is a haunting beauty in the sound of surrender,
Surrender to sorrow,
Surrender to the state of emptiness,
Surrender to a tomorrow without any promises.
Of love, of hope, of rescue from without.

And with it comes an upsurge of inner strength.
Soon, I hear her notes begin to rise,
She crescendos her composition into a song of survival.
Her chords become forceful,
Her style staccato,
Her statement:

Alone I am still whole.
And in my wholeness, I still serve:
My self, my fellow souls, my God.

In that I am all that I need be,
All that I was born to be,
All that I need strive to be.

Just as the staccato becomes strident,
She lets up, stops stabbing, starts stroking the bow more slowly.
The melody shifts to a major chord,
The notes begin to trip along playfully.
Dancing to their own tune.

The cellist glances up and sees what seems to be a haloed angel hovering before her,
Only to realize that it is her own face, reflected in the window
Corona-ed by the rising sun.

She sees her own beauty for the first time in the face of this radiant wraith.
And she smiles, broadly, unshyly, for the first time ever.
She is at home with herself.
She is home.

Her fingers seem to find their own way to a climax,
Leaving her, the cello, and me basking in the afterglow
Of a sunrise within a sunrise.

Friday, May 22, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: loneliness,music,sadness,strength
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Glen Kappy 09 January 2019

suzanne, i was looking for one poem by you to read before moving on and picked this one without seeing i had commented on it before. just to say i enjoyed it this second time around as well. keep making music with your words. -glen

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Glen Kappy 18 March 2018

Suzanne, as I began I thought of Picasso’s The Old Guitarist from his blue period. I like the progression of the narrative through the music. I wonder though at a neighbor playing her cello loudly enough to be heard by a neighbor before and as the day is dawning. -Glen

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Suzanne Hayasaki

Suzanne Hayasaki

Menomonee Falls, WI, USA
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