Chanson on the Red Line
The heart opens
in such unlikely places:
a subway platform, muffled in February,
the train late, no one looking
at anyone else. Then a song begins:
“Parlez moi d’amour”
like a pink ribbon unwinding
from the young black man with guitar
whose throat trembles, who holds
his head back, eyes half-closed.
We each look down
into our own longings,
familiar as the stations we daily travel,
pressed up against strangers.
Slowly we come forward
to drop our thanks into his open case.
We are shy. We don’t want
to be noticed wanting so much.
………………… But who are we?
Let me tell the truth for once.
I walked here quickly
through the dark street—
a middle-aged woman carrying two bags.
I wore a black-and-white cloak
of impossibilities
that smoked like dry ice.
I am waiting here, fresh
from that swift and peopled solitude.
I can love anyone.
What I find most remarkable in Susan Donnelly’s poems is how rarely the situations she portrays seem so. She writes about the ordinary days every one of us inhabits; but somehow, burnished by her subtle music and precise tone of voice, she elevates our shared moments into something worthy of quiet astonishment. In “Chanson…”, she depicts the sort of isolation most of us take for granted – even when in the midst of crowds. The piece makes me wonder whether, once “social distancing” becomes a thing of the past, we will have learned to relish even our casual interactions — with or without the intercession of music or poetry. Susan’s first book, Eve Names the Animals was awarded the Morse Poetry Prize; two other full-length collections followed as well as six chapbooks, the most recent of which is The Finding Day. Perhaps, right now, there is singing close by that will transform our day.