One thing I didn’t expect when I started “The Poet’s Cellist” is how much of it would come down to listening. Not performing, not interpreting—just listening. It sounds obvious, but it’s actually the hardest part.
When I’m working with a poem, my first instinct is usually to do something with it: add music, shape it, respond to it right away. But that tends to flatten things. The more I rush in, the less I actually hear what the poem is doing. So I’ve had to learn to slow that down and spend more time just sitting with it.
Listening to a poem isn’t only about understanding the meaning. It’s about noticing how it moves. Where it hesitates. Where it speeds up. Where something feels unresolved, or oddly quiet. Sometimes the most important part of a poem is the part that isn’t fully explained.
That kind of listening changes how I play, too. Instead of thinking, what should the cello add here? I start asking, what is already happening, and what does it need? Sometimes the answer is sound. Sometimes it’s space. Sometimes the most honest response is to not play at all.
It’s also made me realize that listening isn’t passive; it’s actually a kind of participation. When the cello comes in, it’s not just reacting; it’s continuing the act of listening out loud. The sound carries attention. It lingers on certain moments, or gently redirects focus, the way a conversation does when someone chooses what to respond to and what to leave open.
There’s a balance I’m still figuring out between listening and speaking. If the cello takes over too much, the poem disappears. If it stays too quiet, the conversation never really begins. The interesting space is somewhere in between, where both feel present and responsive.
I think that’s what this project keeps teaching me: that listening is not just a step before creating; it is the creative process. It’s where the connection happens. And when it works, it doesn’t feel like I’m adding music to a poem. It feels like I’m hearing something that was already there, just waiting to be noticed.
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