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Height
Each year I lose a little more of it,
the spaces between the vertebrae
slowly sighing closed
like an accordion that after
a full day of playing dances
lets out a long atonal breath—
the exhalation
of every song it ever made
as the musician prepares
to lay the instrument
gently in its box.
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Julien Strong (they/them) is the author of two books of poems, The Mouth of Earth (University of Nevada Press) and Tour of the Breath Gallery (Texas Tech University Press). Julien’s poetry has appeared in many journals, including The Nation, The Southern Review, Poetry Daily, River Styx, Southwest Review, and The Sun. They are also the author of two novels. An Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Central Connecticut State University, they live in Hamden, CT. [Author photo by Cecilia Cangiano; "Height" appeared first in The Southern Review, Spring 2023.]
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Accordionists, from the Washington Post Magazine.
What a brilliant, whimsical, and poignant use of extended metaphor!
Posted by: Denise Duhamel | July 02, 2023 at 11:57 AM
An entire life in one exhalation
Posted by: Jody Payne | July 02, 2023 at 12:31 PM
Beautiful. And I love the acordions.
Posted by: David Lehman | July 02, 2023 at 01:21 PM
Great poem.
Posted by: Eileen | July 02, 2023 at 01:45 PM
How deeply I feel
This gentle resigned sigh. I miss the four inches I lost somehow. Tho I like now being shorter than my daughter!
Posted by: Clarinda | July 02, 2023 at 04:19 PM
elegant brevity. It says everything, especially that we're left with song.
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | July 02, 2023 at 04:23 PM
Beautiful.
Posted by: Susan Campbell | July 02, 2023 at 07:37 PM
Playful, smart, and deft. Great poem.
Posted by: Ben Grossberg | July 02, 2023 at 09:12 PM
wonderful! i love this image of the accordion's exhalation. aging suddenly feels sweeter. thank you!
Posted by: Beixo M. | July 02, 2023 at 09:13 PM
Wow, I can just see the accordion closing…
such powerful imagery.
Bravo!
Posted by: Celia Steele | July 02, 2023 at 10:07 PM
Height changes apart from the intention of the person, like an accordion which plays music apparently on its own, apart from the musician, who mostly prepares the accordion to move on. The origin of the music itself remains shrouded in mystery.
Posted by: Peter Kearney | July 02, 2023 at 10:35 PM
The sighing of our lives. The exhalation of our music. Love this.
Posted by: Elisabeth Kennedy | July 03, 2023 at 11:47 AM
Lovely words
Posted by: Becky | July 03, 2023 at 12:04 PM
You have written a beautiful musical, description in the most eloquent way. This piece will forever "strike a cord" with all of us who get to that place...and are actually fortunate to be there. For me, the beauty of the poem makes the reality seem less unwanted. AND, you always make me want more.
Posted by: Vickie Krasowski | July 03, 2023 at 02:40 PM
Lovely. I can envision a whole cycle of poems using the motifs of different musical instruments and aging: bent necks, cracked ivories, creaking reeds, etc. ;) But with that comes also how an instrument comes into its own true voice, seasoned through the resonance over a lifetime. Or perhaps more ways to write about spirit as breath...
Posted by: Brian Claflin | July 03, 2023 at 02:49 PM
Uncanny compression--and the layered metaphor's unforgettable.
Posted by: Don Berger | July 03, 2023 at 03:01 PM
What a perfect little poem!
Posted by: Marianne | July 03, 2023 at 09:14 PM
... slowly sighing closed ...
Posted by: Noam | July 04, 2023 at 10:01 AM
I love the metaphor of the accordion for breathing in and out, and the experience of shrinking, from my identify as a super tall woman, to just taller than most as I age. Bravo, Cousin!
Posted by: Jane | July 04, 2023 at 12:16 PM