Monday, December 05, 2005

One More Musical Poem

MEDITATION

Where goes the uttered music?
Transformed, our exhalations fly
Aloft, and live an invisible and
Fervent moment, then pass away into
Prescient nothingness.
Colored, yet colorless,
Moving, yet motionless,
Ardent, yet insensible,
Music moves the world with but a shrug,
Yet dies as it is born.
Where goes the uttered music?

Where sleeps the uttered music?
It floats, ethereal and clear,
Over nations and serrate centuries
Until its resurrection—new empowerment.
Ancient voices,
Vanished tears,
Wakened to life and
Enigmatic power,
Music is an art ever new
Which speaks the language of the dead.
Where sleeps the uttered music?

Ever created,
Ever born anew,
Where rests the uttered music?

[January 13, 1994]

9 comments:

JJ said...

I liked your meditation. Now this blog is starting to look like a XIXth century literary salon. I think we should redecorate it with dark green velvet curtains, carved and gilded chairs with upholstered seats and a petit canapé d'angle en cuir capitonné. A chaise longue garnie de chagrin noir for me, please. And lots of passementerie partout. And some coffe tables and card tables and a grand piano.

(Note: I removed my comment because there was a word missing)

MaLj said...

JJ, you can try preview on your comment next time, and catch errors and missing words before you publish. But, I know, the best way to find an error is to read a post after publication! Don't know why, but it works that way.

...and a harp would be nice as decoration, perhaps? Anybody playing the harp?

Surly Terrier said...

Ah, Maria, how scandalously clever of you to change the subtitle of this blog to encompass all the things we've been throwing at it. I do, however, promise not to overburden the place with my awful poetry.

Surly Terrier said...

By the way, this poem was triggered by a poem of John Masefield, which was, I believe, set by Walton, if not others.

MaLj said...

Rod, I did say "every Thursday", or something? I know we're in different time zones, but if you publish poems two days in a row, and neither one of those days is a Thursday in my little European world, I am really starting to wonder...

Surly Terrier said...

I know. I've been bad. That's why I've promised...no more poems from me!

MaLj said...

Promise; dummies. Don't be so hasty. There is a Thursday this week yet. And I suppose you'll find more from that old collection while you are packing for the house move?

How do you like the new contemporary decoration style of the page? (I changed the Blogger border to tan instead of blue.)

JJ said...

Rod, I don't care if you ignore Maria's strict restriction of only a poem per week. If she does not like it, she can go to the ladies' boudoir and sit on a chauffeuse Napoléon III and get really bored - because she is the only lady here - while the gentlemen have fun in the smoking room.

MaLj said...

I don't smoke, so I don't want to be in the gentlemen's company if they do. You go outdoors! I stay at the fortepiano, or invite another lady who can accompany me when I sing. (Asthmatically. Damned cat. Why must he chose to sleep in my study room?)