Publication 598
By orwell on
Sunday, February 15, 2004
at
23:40
Location:
Ireland
Registered:
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Posts:
18
SearchQuote
Maurice Ravel
A music that inhabits those-
Thoughts of- golden paired feet
Dipped in calmness
An ocean, Brittany, Paris
And the Basque sands;
Haunt, not thoughts-
Of a note, not compressed
Not ignited, on the score
Of a different scale;
There are friends masquerading
And here are their silhouettes,
Escaping as their thoughts
Alternate in the terrible heat
Of discordant metallic noises
Lost in wasted, haunted, sounds-
The Satie pieces cracked, opened
In the middle, of this stage-
The clowns deserted their laughter-
And their elegant ties were chopped
In half, in meadows and woods
Where the lilies, and cowslips,
Bloom against the horrors
Of a different scale;-
There are thoughts- too beautiful
And others- too terrible-
To hesitate, in the wings
Where ghosts, many of the many
Accumulate many more of the many,
Within singular voices bereft of song.
There is this immeasurable beauty
There is her slowly unfolding logic
There is the empty, vanished, room
Of conversations forever relinquished
And enclosed within an aging mind,
Where the innocent sensations become
porous in the tranquillity of forgotten thoughts
Of skin freely swimming against those young bones
Of Biscay, of her memories edging that seaboard
Of a world back-washed in what precedes our time-
For there is silence, and music, and an inability
To listen for that song, in the hearts of all our noise
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