I have already shared this piece, not that long ago. I share it again, with a different prologue. No reason except that I think I should share it, and so I shall, on Tuesday. If you're reading this, it is either Tuesday, after Tuesday or you are me.
This piece was written while listening to a beautiful piece of music, an emotive one, that carried me on its currents like an eagle, powerful and free for a time. I tried to capture what the music did inside me, how it moved me, touched its resonant soul rifts, using words. This poem, the result, was written in real time as I listened and tried desperately to interpret the music's bodily stirrings within me into words. How do you accurately capture embodied, visceral experiences with the language of words? You don't. You just let the music move you as it will.
IT’s not like that,
he said, as he reached down for his blue printed briefcase.
And picked it up.
Off he walked, into the distance and into the dim past before,
his time stretched before him and behind him,
an involuted mix of introverted moments and extroverted synergies,
Seeking and always propelling toward
some greater mists
and essences
and truths
that simmer down in the heart of him,
circling the world of him,
Singing in the night of his desires.
A strumming of a guitar, like a beating of a heart.
Bum-dum-ba-dum bum-dum-ba-dum
Pulsing
We seek it
We gravitate to it
It drives us on,
Gives us hope,
Inspires to be something,
To reach for something,
To become more than the all that we hope to be
And less than the disaster we fear we truly are.
A build
A hope,
A dream,
Crescendo upon crescendo,
Like Bolero’s last minute,
Exalted, amplified and full,
The promised moment, when it all comes together
Is our’s now,
It’s our’s
And here we have this moment, stilling itself,
Mingling itself,
A memory of a great moment, returning to the guitar,
The drums,
The voice …
Release your grip,
There’s nothing here,
Let go,
Find yourself embodied in the dance only the Emperor of Life can take
and make
his own.
Let the music be as a fairy,
Dancing on the were light of your nights,
Singing with the soul of you,
Enmeshed and
entwined
exalted
hopeful
kindred
Sing with me, all you singers of singing
and singers of songs
elated, each one,
And delighted with the crisp light of the night
and energised with his own true air.
Silence.
And yet it sings.
Silent.
And yes you sing.
There are moments in song,
which are moments in time
When my soul soars with the strings
or the voice
or the reed.
Resonating, synchronising, each reverberation
bringing our being into their pulse
their rhythm and sway
and we can’t escape
Cant’ escape!
This magic!
This pulsing, driving, enticing and soothing magic that calms and coaxes,
warms and heals
my heart.
This piece was written while listening to a beautiful piece of music, an emotive one, that carried me on its currents like an eagle, powerful and free for a time. I tried to capture what the music did inside me, how it moved me, touched its resonant soul rifts, using words. This poem, the result, was written in real time as I listened and tried desperately to interpret the music's bodily stirrings within me into words. How do you accurately capture embodied, visceral experiences with the language of words? You don't. You just let the music move you as it will.
IT’s not like that,
he said, as he reached down for his blue printed briefcase.
And picked it up.
Off he walked, into the distance and into the dim past before,
his time stretched before him and behind him,
an involuted mix of introverted moments and extroverted synergies,
Seeking and always propelling toward
some greater mists
and essences
and truths
that simmer down in the heart of him,
circling the world of him,
Singing in the night of his desires.
A strumming of a guitar, like a beating of a heart.
Bum-dum-ba-dum bum-dum-ba-dum
Pulsing
We seek it
We gravitate to it
It drives us on,
Gives us hope,
Inspires to be something,
To reach for something,
To become more than the all that we hope to be
And less than the disaster we fear we truly are.
A build
A hope,
A dream,
Crescendo upon crescendo,
Like Bolero’s last minute,
Exalted, amplified and full,
The promised moment, when it all comes together
Is our’s now,
It’s our’s
And here we have this moment, stilling itself,
Mingling itself,
A memory of a great moment, returning to the guitar,
The drums,
The voice …
Release your grip,
There’s nothing here,
Let go,
Find yourself embodied in the dance only the Emperor of Life can take
and make
his own.
Let the music be as a fairy,
Dancing on the were light of your nights,
Singing with the soul of you,
Enmeshed and
entwined
exalted
hopeful
kindred
Sing with me, all you singers of singing
and singers of songs
elated, each one,
And delighted with the crisp light of the night
and energised with his own true air.
Silence.
And yet it sings.
Silent.
And yes you sing.
There are moments in song,
which are moments in time
When my soul soars with the strings
or the voice
or the reed.
Resonating, synchronising, each reverberation
bringing our being into their pulse
their rhythm and sway
and we can’t escape
Cant’ escape!
This magic!
This pulsing, driving, enticing and soothing magic that calms and coaxes,
warms and heals
my heart.