Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The Listener (poem)
The Listener
He did not pretend
to be one of them.
Louise Gluck
“Exile”
Nor she. What use was it,
to wear their adornments
and carefully chosen clothes,
their ointments on cheek
and lip,
to join their aimless chatter,
when, obviously,
nothing really matched.
She preferred jeans
and flannel shirts,
moccasins
with thick socks,
things you would not
wear to a party
or church.
What she longed for
(but did not yet know)
was the authentic,
something like what Thoreau
found in the woods,
or Homer in his sightless clarity.
What was the point of all this
distraction and display
when your heart
longed to be sung to
by voices long dead.
So she kept listening
in her living room
to the music not of the spheres
but sounds which issued from
the creaking machine
He did not pretend
to be one of them.
Louise Gluck
“Exile”
Nor she. What use was it,
to wear their adornments
and carefully chosen clothes,
their ointments on cheek
and lip,
to join their aimless chatter,
when, obviously,
nothing really matched.
She preferred jeans
and flannel shirts,
moccasins
with thick socks,
things you would not
wear to a party
or church.
What she longed for
(but did not yet know)
was the authentic,
something like what Thoreau
found in the woods,
or Homer in his sightless clarity.
What was the point of all this
distraction and display
when your heart
longed to be sung to
by voices long dead.
So she kept listening
in her living room
to the music not of the spheres
but sounds which issued from
the creaking machine
in the corner,
enough to flood the air with heaven,
circling again and again into
the Brahms, the Mozart,
Beethovan with his commanding
tones.
She was befriended
by Dante and Plato,
Goethe and Keats,
those who had kept
a serious eye on the world
and were not afraid of
essential things.
Year by year
she attended,
listened,
became the vessel,
witness of unfolding truth.
Dorothy Walters
July 29, 2008
enough to flood the air with heaven,
circling again and again into
the Brahms, the Mozart,
Beethovan with his commanding
tones.
She was befriended
by Dante and Plato,
Goethe and Keats,
those who had kept
a serious eye on the world
and were not afraid of
essential things.
Year by year
she attended,
listened,
became the vessel,
witness of unfolding truth.
Dorothy Walters
July 29, 2008
(Note: The above poem is not of the kind I described yesterday. This one is more "from the head" rather than "from the heart," but, like all poetry, it is derived from the cooperation of the unconsciousness and conscious minds.)
