Poetry by Ilse Stacklie-Vogt
The summer of music found its beginnings in the western woods of Portland. It sang marches and Oz and jazz from the bodies of three-hundred-some musicians, young with excitement. The motley, vibrant crew trampled the summer with their wandering feet, over channels and mountains, through lakes, over seas. The summer of music was spattered with voices like splatter-paint constellations. Cheers and whistles and the kind of applause that burns palms red. Massive choirs singing unity in buildings that made bones shake with beauty. “I missed you,” is music to the ears. It sounded of victory and the hollow bellow of the ferry horn. It sounded of whoops and laughter and the kind of bands that only play after every other local artist has performed in the Mt Tabor crater. The summer of music stretched itself sad with ukulele duets, campfire singers perfectly mismatched voices overlapping voices overlapping screech owls. The stretched-sung-shouted-sobbed-into-shaking summer pulsed city-light vividly felt the highway throbbing beat of screaming teens. And it decrescendoed into shaky, tired, embouchures that couldn’t quite kiss for their sobs. The finale was the sort of soft note that feeds a melody of tears. And summer’s curtains close – on the dissonant voice of goodbye.
Ilse Stacklie-Vogt is a seventeen-year-old writer, and lives in the Mt Tabor neighborhood. She enjoys slam poetry, short stories, and to-do lists. Her other interests include playing soccer, walking her dog in the rain, playing the flute, camping, and frequenting coffee shops.