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Saturday, August 13, 2011

The Voices:            

               with spiritual certainty,
               mathematical flowers, delicate
               yet tough, in sweet logical
               spirits, these voices, ghostly
               as truth, or God beyond any
               possible knowledge of Great Being, or
               any golden unfolding

The Violins:

               Bright and burnished far too bold these resinous violins,
               these convoluted lips, this revolving sweetness, too human
               or too rational in a near-joyous brashness in their brave
               and lusty
               attempt to define; they could grow into Beethoven’s 
               thumps, thunder, or
               other unseemly celebration of ‘human things’ and the
               progressive sonata forms               
               this “New aggressive humanity – a world for young men,
               a world…”.
               Cuts the shapes, moves to command the ‘real’, and aches
               for what the voices
               seem to know, but serenades them.  They wait.
               There is yet a suspended mutuality, perhaps the
               ghost-hands reach out
               from each to each.  Perhaps.

The Voices:

    Severe yet soft as gracious beards
they eternally sing. They are beneath
in a graciousness beyond or near grace.
The voices have breath. Of course they
are glad for the ‘masculine’ statements
of the violins and the strength and sweetness
of their pistils shall be glad and erect to the
powerful anthers. But, being chaste enough, they
hallelujah the Eternal in such gentle tones that the Poor
Invisible Hand almost gets annoyed and now writes in
huge looping Numbers, tortuously describing where
Dante’s Hell was (!) – so naughty!! - in a sadly happy ecstasy –
But soon Newman is ‘distilled’ like the spiritual whisky,
aqua vitae, ha!, but They are above the clouds
of desire in unknown yet tabulated spheres:
deliberately they worship The Eternal and The Rose
(e’en if indeed the Naughty Violinos do call out with
Stevensonian  Ice Cream Ho Hos! ); for The Voices know there is
no meaning to be found from the bad and virile Violin Investigators.      
     The Voices continue in perfect Numbers, in slow ecstasy, knowing.
All is in the circumscription, for the blood of Jésu is transcribed, bread is breath
And salvation is numerically certain. Ratios pour perfectly upward as

immortal drops of gold, and

                                    the Huge Head is surely God correct.

The Voices and Violins stop:

        Suddenly a hush

Voices and Violins:

    The violins and the voices blend in a new union.
What is happening to us is not a Question they will ask. They know
in a Spiral Certainty (in a way that is Beyond YOUR knowing);
for the great sounds and circles renew so perfectly

            So sweetly
, and the slide curves, curving                 and These High tones or “sings” ;

these God-filled spaces, and the Mystery, now so glowing, so softly rapturous as a child’s face, as Mutability is denied

                by Eternal Song and Eternal Ratio (the antinomies, giggling, run away to play);

whereat again the skip of the violins is brought to bear in the Interstices, as the blackness now is touched with rouge, as if the Fire had grown sight, and then, and then,
a High Voice, almost BEYOND God Itself –for it cries the terrible, nay the Endlessly Wonderful  mathematical convolutions, the smooth Bach, the curvature so exact and designed, so There-Before-Us, so God-column and Mary Ellipsoidal, so calculated into
the log of  2 or the insane yet Real √2 , or what wonder we can never know – only an endless tunnel of flames who love you and Love and The Great God believed in so gently
the soft, the strong, the great the immortal clasp –

 the Lover, the Impossible, the Great Being

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