"Music Did Not Save You, Charlie. Words Will Not Save Me." by Martina Reisz Newberry

Music Did Not Save You, Charlie. Words Will Not Save Me.
ending with a line from “Poem Beginning with a Line from Leonardo Sinisgalli”
by Peter Everwine

Well, Charlie, the truth is
that you weren’t much of a clarinet player.

I guess you knew that,
as much as you loved music,
loved your clarinet,
you were never going
to make money at it.

You weren’t invited
to play with the small groups
or the local orchestras
The other clarinet players
were not jealous. It was because
you were not very good.

Charlie, there’s a reason
that Rosemary’s Baby
was your favorite movie.

You were a witch—a fine,
skilled worker of that old craft
whose black and white spells
had results. You knew herbs
and oils and trees
and the dwellers in trees.

You were sought out
for love magic
and wealth magic,
and revenge magic.
You were sought out
for chants and the old songs
of untamed creatures and crones.

You made a small book of spells.
It cost $20.00
and you sold 124 copies
with a free bottle of Money Oil
you offered with each purchase.

When I visited your tiny apartment,
I smelled a mix of incense
spiraling through the room:
Dragon’s Blood, Patchouli,
White Sage, and Jasmine.

You read the Tarot and the Runes
and the I Ching. You researched
Voodoo and Santeria.

Once, after putting together
some herbs and powders for me—
a mixture to bring love my way—
you went to your clarinet, said,
I learned a new song.
I’ll play it for you.
You played it.
Another? you asked,
but I sighed heavily and told you
about the errands I had to run.

When you hugged me, your hands
were ice on my back.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said.
Not for the music, for the magic,
you said and air-kissed me.

Charlie—real name, “Charlene”—
I met a lover who didn’t dismiss me
or hit me or call me names.
The powders and herbs did
what they were supposed to do.

You were one fine witch
and I am forever grateful.
I couldn’t be the only person
who asked why you didn’t do magic
for yourself—to become a clarinetist
of excellence. You said,
It doesn’t work that way
and the subject closed itself.

Last night, your sister called.
You stuffed rags and rugs under doors
and taped your windows
and you turned on the gas burners
without lighting them,
sort of like Plath,
sort of like Sexton,
sort of like Rosamond Pinchot,
(but nothing like Marie LaVeau,
a favorite voyager of yours). 

Your sister said your note
was written on parchment.
The clarinet, you wrote,
is a lot harder to play than it looks.

  for C.L.

mARTINA rEISZ nEWBERRY

Martina Reisz Newberry is the author of seven books of poetry. Her most recent book is Glyphs, available now from Deerbrook Editions. She has been included in Cog, Blue Nib, Braided Way, Roanoke Review, THAT Literary Review, Mortar Magazine, and many other literary magazines and anthologies in the U.S. and abroad. She has been awarded residencies at Yaddo Colony for the Arts, Djerassi Colony for the Arts, and Anderson Center for Disciplinary Arts. Passionate in her love for Los Angeles, Martina currently lives there with her husband, Brian, a media creative. Her city is often a “player” in her poems.

Headshot: Meg McConnaughey

Photo Credit: Staff