The way music moves us,
(And from where those fiery winds?)
Meaning hidden, meaning most.
A call of lover, mother, home,
A lost path, a landscape,
Dreamed, so familiar, nameless.
The way it moves.
(And what is it?)
A picture of worlds made in mind,
Mind made real, mind talking.
A giving out, a giving of form.
Sounding depths, shallows rippled.
A language of moments
Escaped from time.
Shaped nothing,
Coming, going, resounding,
And music is how we make,
How we shape, our souls.
For all that lives, sings,
(Does it not?).
We find what we may be
By holding, turning, curving air.
Moving, it moves us,
Moving, it moulds us.
Sound exists only
When it is going out
Of existence.
Music moves us
By the accumulated memory
Of notes no longer heard.
(Chords are the thunder
Of one instant.
A tune: a patter of drops,
A blackbird, after storm has passed.)
Wrapped up in it
We find our skin and nerves.
Tingled, a breeze, a whisper.
Edges, but edges that cannot be measured.
Scales, large, small, up, down,
In meets out and melts.
Note, notation, sound
And space timed.
Thought free from subject
And object.
Thought, wordless,
Exultant.
Ripples in the ether,
String theory,
Sound in a jar.
Movements,
First to last.
Scriabin on a mountain
Scribbling Siva.
Drawing colours
From the tenuous darkness.
Chladni smiles.
Shri shri shri.
(Sings itself).
—-
This is in response to a comment, whose whereabouts i just can’t find at the moment, but the first line here is what it was. Apologies and thanks for the inspiration, whomsoever it was….
simonhlilly 