The Music of Poetry

Ah! Yes! Yes! You say my poetry reminds you of a great musician; the ear to feel and a heart to impart—so the conductor motions his vessels to sail: a pianissimo or great crescendo! I think that breeze, that wind that went into us all should always blow out, a journey full, an ocean roar as we are commissioned to assimilate, translate, define and refine the creator into something even more loftily created: Each cell with its own vibratory sound; independent while attractive-- repelled by others be-spelled by sirens, as the snake its victims and the saint its helpless devotees entwined; whether toward or away one flees the entombment-- breaking the shell of fear we blossom while unfold-- we write a new reality; The discord! The harmony! Volumes that chase then surround—the ever splintering light we pursue a multitude of wands--reconstitute and tune,--Ah! Such exaltations can be violent, can be harmony; Yet they are all divine--beauty and pain fall and rise as smoke dissipates leaving a beaming new sky. Should we be less than a symphony of all sorts? And those players of Shakespeare, should we not be players off the stage as well as on?—anything less would be true hell, transcending those fictitious demons, powerless were it not for our complicity; and so possessed the stage itself...and the theater pillars, and the sky translucent, a cathedral dome for our blessed cradle, heaven peering in on its young, adoring man's perfect, soulful evacuation, each poem a religious icon of sorts-- No, we should not think ourselves merely children of the sun and moon—nor those limited by music of enchanted spheres, for we are at our shores and depths the effulgence of all blessed composing tears.