His angular hand
coaxed these tones
unheard of till then:
sweet nasal chirps
and lucid pourings
swift as sugar water.
I sit with my own
instrument
and ponder
how I can do anything
worthy of being heard
in the wake of hearing this.
I’d have not braved
the world after the fire
if it had been me.
It isn’t my place
to imagine
that loss as a necessary urge
to this music.
It isn’t anyone’s place
to ascribe
art’s impulse to pain.
It comes as it comes,
out of the source
wherever there’s room.
A hand crabbed and fused,
melted and charred,
offered an open door
for it to bubble up.
I unclench my own, stare
at the perfect fingers
dry as dust, wondering
at the torrent burbling
around me. I pronounce
his name carefully,
inviting rain and spring snow.
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Dark Matter 
December 1st, 2009 at 11:32 pm
Swift as sugar water . . .Nice! Who is Django?
December 2nd, 2009 at 12:05 am
Django Reinhardt was one of the greatest jazz guitarists of all time. Lost his wife and child in a fire; while trying to save them, had his left hand horribly burned. His ring and pinky were permanently fused to the palm of his hand, and his middle finger was severely injured. He retaught himself to fret the guitar with his remaining digits, and essentially invented the style of jazz guitar known as “Gypsy jazz.” Astonishing player, amazing story. Worth seeking out.