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with only very small blurs owing to poetic paraphrase



Reid Welch


27.08.2007 00:57


Self introduction to Clara Rockmore, 1994=

I met Clara Rockmore by playing intuition
like she phrased the theremin,
by changing phases in the air.

High priestess of that instrument,
"It's not for schpooky music!",
she took little contact with a world
old age, suspicion, shut her in.

When I'd learned that Clara
was still alive (though barely),
a dozen roses teleported

to her New York City home
from an anonymous admirer in Miami.

She was piqued. She could not phone.

The florist called instead, "A nag
is pushing for your name and address."

I looked up Clara, always listed;
telephoned her then and heard
her music--myself as her muse.

"Oh! You're the one who sent these roses?
They're so lovely, lasting well.
How did you know red is my color?
Red roses are my favorite flowers."

Honesty declaimed— "I guessed".

"Professor Termin courted me;
he sent red roses every week.

That was many years ago.

Now you send me roses—so
I must ask, I need to know

"Nothing, Mrs. Rockmore, nothing but to say
your music makes my mornings last the entire day.
I listen to your album
put down years ago.
I think you are immortal
but none of us are so—
so blessed to have your soul
and the taste you evidence.

So I sent some roses as
reminders of the lives you touch."

And nearly every-after month
I'd send a fresh red dozen.

But, Clara couldn't love

forever—lost in May of '98.

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Reid Welch 26.08.2007 23:00  
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Reid Welch 27.08.2007 00:50  
Message      with only very small blurs owing to poetic paraphrase
Reid Welch 27.08.2007 00:57  
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