In this our life, some passages sound low,
As if guitar or lute set forth the Theme...
At other moments, solo oboe sounds,
Or flute or lone voice honestly achieves
A clearer statement of It. Then, sometimes,
Trumpets, mass'd strings, an orchestra at full,
Develops line into a Pattern. Whole,
An architect's extension (in the mind)
Turns what began into a mighty phrase
Of Something Original...Then, we recall
Quiet guitar, the oboe, and tunes more
As firm theme's golden thread runs through its
trace
Or grand expression. Thus, betwixt two tiers,
We hear the music of our lives play'd out
In strife majestic or simplicities...
Music has pow'rs, as odors contexted do,
Thus t''evoke far more than pure theme's line
Or sounds harmonious should draw from mind
Or from emotions...Even phrases new,
Chords and progressions not from 'standard'
themes
Can wield this sorcery: opening zones;
Teaching dimensions hitherto unknown;
Ceding men wonders trapp'd in webs of dreams.
Glad bondage this--to trace a wand'rer's path,
Find new directions out, new certainties,
New shadows, doubts, concatenations--these--
Unlook'd for splendors, whose high peaks' heights
dash
All former norms of wonder into bits:
Life is the realm that music dares to plumb;
Theme the mind's one most-potent instrument.
...by Robert David Michael (Cerello)
