YOU CANNOT TELL WHOSE BREATH IS IN THE OBOE

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You cannot tell whose breath is in the oboe

Or whose hand is on the lyre,

You don’t know which smile wrote the music,

Music escaping the fire,

Murmuring from flower to flower,

Now, in this musical hour.

The windy lyre is tall

Because the notes need a long way to fall.

The black clarinet

Hasnt started playing yet.

What soil makes the music grow?

Atheist! You must admit you do not know.

The unknown bee will never tire

Of collecting honey from your soul,

A lonely soul too lonely to love—

A flat, A minor, a roaring etude of pride.

A fantasy in C finds the only honey you hide

But tomorrow C will not find it.

Your child is a rude child and no one wants to mind it.

A melody in D floats over you like sparks from a dying fire,

Whose breath is in the oboe?

Who plays F and G repeating on the silky sighing lyre?

Which bee hums for you now?

You cannot tell, can you? and you do not want to know

Which string strikes which string in the ancient sighs below.

 

 

 

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2 Comments

  1. noochinator said,

    June 5, 2016 at 3:43 pm

    I’m glad that TAFKAC* touches your soul—
    For there’s more to music than rock ‘n’ roll.

    *The Art Formerly Known As Classical-music

    • thomasbrady said,

      June 6, 2016 at 12:20 am

      I listen to 90% Classical these days. The Mozart piano concerto (especially no. 17) is a current favorite. Nothing delivers like a Mozart piano concerto. I also listen to Prelude a l’apres-midi d’un Faune. Lenny’s lecture on it, too.


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