Marlene M. Tartaglione is an artist whose creativity manifests poetry, children’s literature, the visual arts. She was born & raised in New York City. Ms. Tartaglione believes art & compassionate action are one, a powerful tool for positive social change: Her work gives voice to social justice, spiritual transcendence & environmental issues, among others. Ms. Tartaglione’s writing has appeared or reviewed in literary presses both nationally & abroad (i.e. The Hong Kong Review, Canada’s Dreamers Creative Writing, England’s Amethyst Review; Australia’s Cordite Review, Wind Journal, Artist & Influence, Fertile Ground, Cholla Needles & The Chronogram (U.S.A.). Her work has also appeared in the publications of New York University & The Cooper Union, among other literary & gallery exhibitions.
Ms. Tartaglione has been awarded four poetry prizes, her work presented at venues such as the Brooklyn Museum, New York Cultural Center, New Federal Theater, The Society for Ethical Culture, Barnes & Noble/ B. Dalton Booksellers, as well as the New York Book Fair. Both Ms. Tartaglione’s writing & artwork are cited in archives at the University of Buffalo in Buffalo, New York; her poetry & children’s stories, profiled in lectures at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. Published in Hatch-Billops’ Black History annual, Artist & Influence, Ms. Tartaglione’s poems are now part of their permanent collection endowed to Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. Her M.B.A. studies at NYU focused largely on the literature of Early Childhood as well as documentary film. Ms. Tartaglione also holds a B.F. A. from the Cooper Union, where she studied with scholar/educator/poet, Dr. Brian Swann.
“My heart opens to your voice…”
(from the opera, “Samson et Dalila”
music by Camille Saint-Saens)
ENTER
You enter me
through music, slipped through the skin
like a jaunty virus
claiming me your own: Whether ill
or welcome, healthy, or whole; whether
forced or by choice, derelict or
lame, I am yours, captured while still
tethered to fire
from the moment
that your fingers begin:
Their fevered tendrils stroke each key;
now the moon no longer misbehaves.
In that instant, the universe
takes pause– chaos, cacophony
hold their breath, consort sound to raise
with octaves the pulse
of that which once was dead–
Osiris,
renewed by desire;
Isis, his bride, singing open
his scattered graves.
… Nearby, Orpheus
strums his lyre. Creation awakens
as flora & fauna gather nearer, while
even midnight’s silver crescent hastens
to offer as bow-&-sling
her arc
for your art– your every intention,
awakening…
… The World becomes a living mirror,
reflection of its vital
Voice & Source. Now even the Heavens
ring, & rejoice —
… How my heart opens
to the sound of your voice!
But all of life yields its opposites—
From this moment on, blood becomes blaze;
You ignite
within me like an eager cell
now madly gone awry, each wild tentacle
invading what it wants…
… You, magnetic ghost, comely spectacle
like a disease
recurring again & again, to claim
this very site– the host
that it forever hunts & haunts…
… you, both Errant Lover
& the sad cost his lover pays…
& so,
as such– you are free, yet I remain…
To learn rapture, I wed pain:
I swallow ash, its ancient, molten metal
which erupts through
my grates of bone– infuses, braises,
sears to hone both dirge & hymn
to that infernal Twin, my eternal longing…
How it seeps through each recess of flesh–
this vast, wanton plain, one suddenly
barren yet fertile
in turn–
A wilderness waiting to bloom, then burn!
… You, that homage
to ecstasy & acid rain at once—
all the sweet damage
that you & your music make!
& so–
by your keen touch (neither timid, nor still)
I all but surrender
free will, jettisoned by sound
to the edges of your sea–
keyboard now boardwalk
upon which I strangely stride–
(runway to the Impossible-to-Reach–
Your presence, your absence
stretching far & wide before me)…
… Here dove-like gulls scale solitary peaks
pretending to be clouds, while
that serpent-spine of bone-white beach
caresses its ebony debris: white key, black key
— one, then the other–
all with which
your bold, fleet fingers find favor…
… I’ve watched you come & go, in waves,
not unlike one reckless disease
that retreats, then returns, to claim its own…
… You, transient Lover,
all black pearls & salt!
How these splayed, broken shells
remain charred, fractured skulls
of our love’s long-ago,
& lost, discarded carcasses…
… Is this your spirit that lingers
in braying cascades
that reach for me, then snap close, like petals?
Their ghost cries– whales-cries,
still cleave to my chest,
wreathes of stubborn metal (your fingers?)
which drag me down further, deeper
& deeper underwater…
(yes… you leave Time,
even memory, bereft– Demeter
mourning the loss of her daughter–
lovely Persephone,
her soul’s abducted flower).
… It is a rough beach, like the fray of black hair
which tumbles in waves
to your flushed, olive face– their rogue drops
an anointing-oil of such bitter balm
to both my ailing heart & breath…
… O errant
persistent Lover, you know all too well
that storms rarely rest, or grow calm by one’s choice—
… The only means for such tempests to quell
is something beyond
their mere physical death– yet it is that
which no science nor spell might enforce…
& so, freely– undaunted— by will
or default…
My heart opens
to the sound of your voice!
Poetry in this post: © Marlene M. Tartaglione
Published with the permission of Marlene M. Tartaglione