music
Try to define it, seek in vain its source
or where it vanishes. By formulas
and theories tell me what it is I breathe,
what makes the stars bright, why the waves are long
unending servants of a master-moon.
Tell me why I love, why I see blue
in a sky where no blue is, but only light.
Tell me my pen is nothing but a force
my hand (which is not either) works upon,
and that the keys my fingers linger on
are never ivory, but are molecules
“gyrating in a predetermined form.”
Tell me the scent of lilacs is not real
but only a fusion working on my sense.
Tell me the fresh green of a new spring lawn
is chlorophyll. Tell me turgidity
makes hyacinths stand stiff beside the path.
Tell me all this. I shall believe you true
and grant you what you say. But music – there
try to define it! Seek in vain its source,
its essence, where it waits for my two hands
to call it forth from yellowed, singing keys.
Put it in tubes, solve its complexities,
tell what its structure is – yes, if God will.
But you can hound it down the path of years
and curse and stamp. It shall elude you still.
- Jane Tyson Clement
