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the poet
Multi-disciplinary artist Lisa J Coates works with an international creative practice that takes in everything from live performance and theatre making to creative writing and visual art. She's also a classically trained mezzo-soprano and recording artist, with performances spanning the stage, concerts, television and radio. Lisa's poetry has appeared in Southbank Poetry Magazine, Northern Gravy, York Literary Review, Bad Lilies and Anthropocene. She was mentored by Helen Mort, and granted a Developing Your Creative Practice award in 2023 to help with her writing for the stage.
the poems
Sonata
I
The Violinist
‘ … so long as the woman remained properly feminine,
so long as she did not become expert, then she could play the violin.’
Anna Beer, musicologist
‘Inspired by and symbolic of the most beautiful
human object, the woman’s body … ’
Yehudi Menuhin, violinist
Fingers trace maple-hued | polished lines, sliding | over belly and ribs to rest | in curve of waist | With delicate touch | the musician picks up | her instrument, pressing | body against body | wrapping a loving hand | around the slender neck | Tuning begins, winding | tighter and tighter | The violin hums in anticipation | of rosin hair against her strings | Upbeat breath, bow | to top string, the musician | coaxes the violin to life | As she begins | her downward arc | the violin calls out | a soft cry of music, music | With masterful strokes | the musician commands | dancing between | legato, spiccato, col legno | Mistress and instrument bow | their backs in ecstasy | invoking leitmotif in absolute | harmony. Rising | to long-awaited climax | the violin erupts | in a glorious cadenza | singing the full- | range of her pleasure | from throaty contralto | to sweet soprano. The bow is lifted and 𝄐 | Coasting down from her peak | the violin reaches perfect cadence | Fingers trace the maple-hued | polished lines, sliding | over the belly and ribs to rest | in the curve of waist | With delicate touch | the musician puts down | her instrument separating | body from body | unwrapping loving hand | from slender neck | She lays her lover | in her velvet bed to rest | whispering brava amour, encore ||
Sonata
II
The Composer
I have a colleague who has claimed that the only evidence he would accept
for the presence of a woman’s voice in music is the demonstration
hat there can be ‘tits on chords’.
Susan McClary, musicologist, from Feminine Endings
Hysterical themes and tits on chords.
That’s what I write.
Immodest. Uncontrite.
Shouldn’t I be content to wait
in the wings, where
the light doesn’t reach —
an acciaccatura to man’s main beat?
Instead, I’m pumping out
compositions instead of kids.
Hemiolas high on sex hormones,
Études on oestrogen and
progesterone fuelled pentatonic
scales as if I had something to say
but how can I compose music
when my boobs get in the way?
Sonata
III
The Conductor
’A sweet girl on the podium can make one’s thoughts
drift towards something else.‘
Vasily Petrenko, conductor
By all accounts the conductor had curves to die for,
though very little remained
once the orchestra had finished with her.
Perhaps it was the tasty Little Black Dress she wore
for the concert that tipped
the balance in the end. Barely had she lifted
her baton when the players attacked,
throwing instruments aside
in their frenzy to feed, cresting
over the podium in a freak wave
accompanied by the gasps of spectators.
In a bitter seasoning of irony, hands more
accustomed to creation now ripped
apart. The orchestra leader growled
and roared, intimidating the rest of the strings
for the choicest meat as per his Alpha status.
The percussionist, after the brawn, split
the skull with his mallet. One
of the cellists skewered severed
hands and feet on his spike
like some macabre kebab, and an oboist sucked
the marrow from the tube of bones
whilst the entire brass section squabbled
like hyenas over the offal.
The philharmonic fed until there was nothing left
but smears staining the stage
and the audience standing in ovation.
Publishing credits
The Violinist / The Composer: Bad Lilies (Issue 11)
The Conductor: exclusive first publication by iamb