Words about Lyres

Blogdom and related realms,
My tastes in music are cliche, I know. First there was the Bach tribute and here's with Mozart. I can't seem to find the existential meaning in Smettena, the ireppresible spirit of Tchaikovsky, the primal rhythms of Stravinski, or the music in Eliot Carter. But I hope I have a new take on the old masters that comes through here and in the previous musical poem. I feel obliged to post, because the music is a masterless Samurai, being fierce and belonging to no-one.

This symphony numbered forty

As an age unreachable

So trumps cause we call it of no age,

Or none any will reach.

Starting as a first perfect lullaby

From the speed of its deflowering

Perhaps for a rarified child of wartime,

Or, what's like for the symphony

A pampered one dreaming a war of toys.

Again, again, the too lean theme

As all cities must, begins again

Strutting the magic deformity

Of its law so thin and sickly.

With each day rising, with each day falling

As an empire that lasts a thousand years

While untramelled day beneath its monuments

Unroll as priorly known by wise astronomers,

A meter to our thoughts.

The strokes now here, then there

As dolphins emerging

In the corners of the sea.

A great conductor? Entropy?

Or witty banter following the deep?

All doused in ink and opium

That theme on your desk

Has the wit of hawks

That jolt our eyes not knowing what they do.

Manifold bows pause, unrobbing the naked theme.

Are these men like us,

Who still strut between the frets upon the stage?

First violinists, whose first principles

Are fleeting progressions waiting for reprise?

Like ourselves, we do not know them.

You play upon this rhythm

As children runnning variable circles

Around a father's knee,

That corpse of their conception in a living room.

The wit; a lady fainting at the lock-like twirl.

The theme: stout ladies at a country dance

Reassuring with their voluptuous arms.

To wit; converse grace and certain oblivion,

In the theme, suddenly bare of support.

A pause, applause, music's ancient basis

A throng before an empty podium.

The scaffolding appears,

Proving in that sweaty hall

That this symphony was writ, once.