Simone Weil looks out
of a black and white photograph
set inside a simple silver frame
which sits on top of a polished
August Förster piano.
the piano is overly ornate
and doesn’t look pleased
to be so garishly carved and decorated
and Simone doesn’t look overly pleased
that i am idly pressing the piano keys
with one hand
with the other i gulp mouthfuls of bordeaux
from a plain wine glass held up
to catch the sallow yellow sunlight
coming from the bay
about a mile away
but to my eyes, Simone Weil never looks pleased.
a woman i would never open my mouth to
to strangle my thoughts into garbled sound
the kind of woman i’d listen to
without wanting to speak to interrupt
such intellectualisme formidable.
she died aged 34 and i wonder
what she thinks about that.
i play off-key notes to Simone
as though the notes make more sense than
anything i could say because they’re
just noise
so i make a radical self-sacrifice and shut the
piano lid and look at the picture of Simone Weil
through the wine glass
and paradoxically
smile at her not smiling
in her mystical way.
