Mid-Morning at the OK Club — Part 2
My reverie took flight, with autumn’s sight,
For I was abstracted, entranced, and light.
I beamed to the site suffused with insight:
The solutions are deep within the mind,
Reachable by dreams of the lucid kind.
While I am listening to Afsoon Elmy’s CD of FitzOmar’s quatrains singing, a poetess/songstress, Ima Beloved, arrives, and offers me a walk outside into the warming autumnal haze. We take off and stroll afar through the countryside, scuffling through the leaves.
The weed flowers came, marking autumn’s track,
The blossoms that almost brought the spring back.
She says, “Here’s a wide log; let us sit on it to rest a while,” then hums the Pachelbel Canon, mild, adding words to it from a poem that we know, thereby creating a song, music through and thru! It goes something like: Then, where and when will we touch again…”
“Why do people take to songs so heartily?” I ask.
“Because songs can touch one’s spirit truly, so very deeply and thoroughly.”
“But how? Why?”
“There are wordless rhythms in what we call the ‘soul’. Poetry, in a rather approximate way, I’m told, attempts to translate the soul’s rhythms into words. Melody, on the other hand, being already wordless, plays directly on the heart’s strings. A song, being a poem set to music, sings, and thus causes heart and soul to ring and blend into one unified and glorious experience.”
“Yes, and it all seems to flow so smoothly. And, by the way, your words of prose seem to both rhyme and sing, my dear.”
“Music, like life, consists of the ‘what-how’ of what I would call a ‘smoothly rolling now’.”
“I feel that I know your meaning, but, please explain the further seaming seeming.”
“Well, the total effect of music comes from, I’m sure, the smooth transition through past, present, and future, this, thanks to a correspondence rationed, in memory, sensation, and imagination. Memory recalls the past few musical tones that have come just before the ‘now’ that we own; sensation lives ever in the ‘now’ as known, and therefore it savors the present tones; imagination looks to the future rounds, anticipating the coming sounds.”
“Ah, I get it, and it’s poetic. The delight in such as is known is as none of the three could produce alone!”
“Yes, that’s it, my man, as you’re a poet, too, a fine conclusion, and similarly, there is a life award: for each one of life’s moment’s words contains eternal reward, since both past and the future are smoothly rolled up thereinward.”
“We live in the paradisal ‘now’, at last, wherein each moment is eternally vast,” I state, poetically.
“Now, let us consider the quatrain,” she says, “for it can encapsulate and condense a lot of wordiness into something more succinct, as like a pearl produced from an oyster’s digestion—please excuse me for that last part.”
I write, juggling the words and the rhyme sound, after having to end up using 12 syllable lines:
Memory’s ideas recall the last heard tone;
Sensation savors what is presently known;
Imagination anticipates coming sounds;
The delight is such that none could produce alone.
(Ima’s winter garment of repentance thrown off in the spring)
(Click on the GIF image above to run it.)