How the lyric feels within my mouth
Brightly, sun pours forth in generosity, particles of light
drifting ever downward
Upon ten fingers and a smile. One, two, three, four and
breathless, I play.
Once again, a magical afternoon with the traffic hurrying by,
unnoticing
Of the life and death and passion occurring just a few feet
away.
These old black and white keys, chords and rhythm and spaces
between,
Moments of music, and- me! How sweet it is to touch the
divine,
To hold it in my heart and let it run through me, notes
tumbling forth,
Water in a slough, and the trees, and the stars, and the
murk, and the purity,
All of nature and all of God and all of man and woman
combined into:
Music. What then, is music? The food of Gods, painting upon
silence, and
Pleasure, and... And this. This is how it feels to be moved.
This is how it feels to dance,
And this, as I sing, today it is French and tomorrow it is
German and another day
It may be Czech. And my mouth becomes Venus’ pearlized
shell, curved round the top
And pink within, and the strength from the earth and that
air from above and lost am I
In something almost un
human (and yet oh so very) when I realize this reverberating
(something! What? What is it? It is like falling in love,
and capitulating the lover,
it is like the sensation of rustling in one’s heart at the
witness of a hundred parakeets
in exodus from a weeping willow in one sudden rush of terror
and joy, it is effervescent
and it is) it is within me, coming from me? Nay, not from.
Through. And back I am to the
through, for this is how the lyric feels within my mouth,
whether I sing for la mort or
l’amour. I sing for you.
e.e.m.
