Thursday, October 18, 2012


There are pastel painted water coloured wavelengths
In the pert pulsations of a fairy-like feminine voice -
No hard hammers and twisted tongs of anvil accents
Streaming like spoken sparks from some novel new bolero.

The inflections that are there are subtle soft and smooth
And much more musical than modern method melodies,
With their rasping raps of racial ranting and rueful raging.
Instead my ears are soothed by sing-song traces
Of a foreign clime with a classical culture –
Partiality for rhythm and a beautiful bias to graces.

And yet our tongues talk best of matters of the heart.
'Tis true that for such treasures there is no limit of language
That can confine our imaginings and control our questing
To the point where all we know is black benighted bitterness.
For the heart sings only trilling arias backed by slow sweet pitched adagios
That lull the listener listless and bid him blissfully to blessing.

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