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Cathedral Melancholy<\/strong><\/p>\n Every morning in the cathedral the man <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/strong> Cathedral Melancholy Every morning in the cathedral the man who might be a monk plays the organ, sound streaming through stained glass on dark angel wings. The music is like the earth\u2014ancient, scattered, metal sharp. He must drink wine from old flasks, red wine, burgundy as god\u2019s beard\u2014fingers like nails driving each […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8220","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8220","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8220"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8220\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8222,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8220\/revisions\/8222"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8220"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8220"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8220"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nwho might be a monk plays the organ,
\nsound streaming through stained glass
\non dark angel wings. The music is like
\nthe earth\u2014ancient, scattered, metal sharp.
\nHe must drink wine from old flasks,
\nred wine, burgundy as god\u2019s beard\u2014fingers
\nlike nails driving each key as a note for
\nasphalt covering dirt, single arias for
\nthe damned, unrequited love for those
\nwho walk by and never hear.
\nIn the evening he still plays, music less mad:
\nsofter tones, twilight butter, crimson leaves
\nburnt clef notes that swirl like candle smoke.
\nNoises seeking salvation\u2019s window,
\nhe twists stories from the keys, light and dark,
\nblack, white, narratives for the lost, forgotten,
\nfor those soon to be absent, disremembered\u2014
\nfingers sure as a ticking clock, wound backwards\u2014
\nspring that cannot uncoil, he plays and plays
\nfor those who do not listen.<\/p>\n
\nRalph Monday<\/strong> is an Associate Professor of English at Roane State Community College in Harriman, TN., where he teaches composition, literature, and creative writing courses. He has been published widely in over 50 journals including Agenda, The New Plains Review<\/em>, New Liberties Review, Fiction Week Literary Review<\/em> and many others.\u00a0 His poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Houghton Mifflin\u2019s \u201cBest of\u201d Anthologies, as well as other awards. A chapbook, All American Girl and Other Poems<\/em>, was published in July 2014. A book Lost Houses and American Renditions<\/em> is scheduled for publication in May 2015 by Aldrich Press.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"