A Poem to My Voice

by Randi Janelle

My voice,
that sounds like my mother on the phone,

My voice,
often giddy with gurgles and geysing glotturals of glee,

My voice,
never particularly good at singing,

Why are you so petulant?
Why do you stutter stop and shun sundry sentences brave finishes?
Why are you super nervous sometimes still?
Why do you choke me with your tight-assedness?
Why do you sass me with your refusal to be all élégant?

Why are you the one thing in me
that cowers?

I do love you, I promise.
But I feel this relationship is one sided
and that’s why I’ve enrolled in classes.
The mediation is important,
because I need you to hear me.
I need you to be
glorious and glam’rous with silk-lined charm,
to hum and hover and halve auditory atoms with your avariciousness.

This is a professional matter.
I am a performer,
so I beg you to shape up.
The sooner the better, please.
I’ve got gigs booked.

A Poetic Response from My Voice

Randi, dear,
I don’t see what the big deal is
because I don’t have eyes.

But I do have spirit
and a hearty sense of humor,
so let’s cut the crap
and take the piss.

First off,
you were traumatized
by being the tender age of thirteen
and trying to prove your vocal ability
to your bratty brother and sister
because in your happy little head
you sounded quite eloquently equal
to your sister’s soaring soprano,
singing Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel”.
So you put it to the test
one quiet afternoon
recording yourself
on the tape deck
of your beloved boom box.
You might have been severely saddened
to learn you weren’t
well, ever, on key
and your stupid siblings might’ve been right,
but I was there,
and my metaphorical memory muses at the magnificence of the moment,
and chuckles at your need to qualify yourself.
I was thirteen too, for crying out loud,
so forgive us.
If you hear yourself as a good singer,
then fucking sing.
Plus, you’re a lyricist in a band now
and you consistently realize your dreams.
Sarah’s moved on to Christmas albums,
and you should move on, too.

Secondly,
I’m not sure why
you fear people’s opinions;
it’s a voice-known fact
that others do not judge
as often as they do
in fantasies birthed by anxiety.
Breathe deep. Be present.
And only imagine the audience naked if you’re doing some sexy bare-all-in-visualization-art-thing
cause I could get into that.

To enunciate the point,
I’ve never been anything
but pure, sensational sonorousness.
It’s your limited perception
and habit
of me that has induced your wild accusations.

I am YOUR voice
not your mother’s,
not the resonant sweetness of your sister’s,
not the divinely deep wisdom of the slam poets
that make me go “mmm!”
I am YOUR voice
always with something to say
joy to portray in playful creativity;
free.

So,
you can fire the mediator,
but keep going to class.
I’m having fun there.

Oh, P.S.
I love you, too silly girl. 😉

_{Photo by Elion Jashari on Unsplash}