From Ms. Busching
" Hello! Besides all the official information in my professional biography, there are other things you might like to know about me (such as: I DO have a life!:) Music has been with me since about th age of two when I sang descants with my mother while she gave me my bath. Now that I'm grown up, I've branched out a little, such as getting married and having three children who are the greatest kids ever (although they are fully grown and independent). My oldest son, Paul, is vice-president of Hill-Dale Construction in Illinois. My daughter, Sharon, is on the Hopkins Advanced Camera for Survey Hubble telescope team. My youngest son is a graduate from the Mayo Clinic with a Master's degree in Physical Therapy. He and his wife are also mountain biking champions in the Dakotas. (You wouldn't guess I was proud of them!)
My main hobby has always been writing poetry, and at last some of it is getting published. I receive no income from this enterprise yet, but it is nice to see one's efforts in this specialty in print.
Last words for now: I am an extremely happy person and wouldn't work any other place than at Peabody. We have an atmosphere that I look forward to being a part of every day."
Some of my poetry
At St. Cecelia's Window
In the gray medieval gloom
where summer-shaded stones still
hoard a thousand winters' chill
stands St. Cecelia's pillared room,
her leaded portrait cut in white
and amber glass. The frozen strings
stretched on her crystal lute ring
silent melodies of light.
Her fixed and parted lips still send
upwards the mute and glowing chants
heard just by Heaven's occupants
where ranked and tiered burning choirs
stroke their incandescent lyres
and join her stanzas without end.
M. Busching
We Are Eating Us Up
Every fish is the shape of a mouth,
every bird has succulent thighs.
Sweet oily fish lies
on beds of dill
and deep gouts of rock blood
yield to the drill
or smoke in black lakes.
Our lungs are beaded
with black specks.
You can see the air
like pale powdered cocoa afloat;
cities groan upward through it.
Stars are drowned in streetlights, remote.
The seas grow quietly vacant,
sidewalks crush the corn.
Which generation will be
the last to be born?
We are eating us up.
M. Busching
