Hedy Habra

The Upright Piano

After Piano on Fire by Andrew Ferez

I see myself out in the cold, draped in a silk nightgown, seated

barefoot on a stool by that upright piano, you know, the one my

mother bought when she thought I should take piano lessons, while

others played during recess, oh, how I first struggled striking notes

daily, practicing scales, then rehearsing Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca”

till I’d play it in my mind relentlessly, tan tan tan . . . tan tan tan . . .

even when I knew I’d never learn another piece, and now, half a

century later, I am drawing with memory’s wavering lines that same

piano to make it the vessel of my heart’s message, of so much left

unsaid buried in a bitter well turning into notes that rise in tongues of

cold fire licking my insides with every key I touch, unharmed, I feel

the piano ablaze under my fingertips, twisted candles adorn its top

that grows into a tower and turrets spouting flames from windows,

a menace to the adjacent branches, my fingers wildly strike the

keyboard while the sky opens up like a stage filled with shimmering

damask memories dancing to the melody like maddened fireflies.

First published by Knot Magazine

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53, 2015)

At the Violet Hour

After Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

Star-crossed lovers unite high above as the city slips into slumber. I

alone keep watch at the lighthouse, longing to be swept by the big

wave, feel it rolling me in its indigo fingers cooling me into a ball of

blue ice, a maddened dervish whirling layers and layers of sea and

sky in the ways of the Crazy Redhead who keeps the secret of every

stroke, I choose to ignore these black leaping flames springing out of

hatred and envy, a bonfire lit with rolled parchments filled with lost

dreams and rosemary, its sparks scattering yellow poppies in a

cerulean field. How I wish you could see how the timid evening

crescent nests inside its golden case.

First published by Parting Gifts

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53, 2015)

Reading by Candlelight

Bent over the page, I watch the light of the candle cast fluid shadows,

the way the cypress pierces low clouds with its vertical green flame,

flaring will-o’-wisps spring from the spiral staircase of my

consciousness, ferns unfurl in slow motion, spread liquid color

at dawn as fronds fill spaces once covered with snow,

the hearth’s fiery tongues my cat and I watch flicker all night long,

the blue flame rising when I’d flambé cognac over crêpes suzettes,

the flicker of a match lighting a cigarette,

the infamous flames of a pyre or an auto da fe in a central square,

the flame of a candle I read about, lighting Camoens’ table,

his cat sitting on a pile of notes eyes gleaming at the waning wick,

the poet keeps writing in the dark under the light shed from the eyes

of his cat,

the tall flames casting a shadow-show of a couple’s encounter over

the walls of a cave,

flames rising from Beirut at night, as we watched from the mountains

during the civil war,

the flames of violence filtered by the TV screen, more virtual each day,

still color the news, images hiding the smell of blood and charred skin.

First published by Poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles 

From The Taste of the Earth  (Press 53, 2019)