This is a third poem that I am posting on here. Again, this is entirely created on the spot, right here in the forum.
I hear,
From afar,
Melodious strains,
But my room is silent.
I sense,
My door ajar,
Wondrous rhythms,
But my body is still.
Music...
What is music?
Is it merely the enter-twining
Of melodies and silver lining,
And the glitz and glamor of Broadway shows?
Or is it the African rhythms
Made by banging pans and prisms
Thus driving my mom crazy?
What is music?
Is it the love one feels
Whenever one heels
And falls endlessly in love?
Or is it the joy of victory
In ceaseless brutality
As we crush all opposition?
What is music?
I think that real music is divine.
And not just divine in a small way.
In my mind, it's the highest way
For any sort of art to come.
For when you listen to a song
That never comes out wrong
You can't grab it and put it into your pocket.
You have to play it again to hear it.
And again.
And again.
And again, until it has done whatever it has done.
It is this upliftment
Through the Testaments
And all the wills of God
that I can see this music.
It is with words of the heart
And fiery, passionate starts
that I can hear this music.
It is with spiritual ears
That harbors no fears
That I can sense this music.
All the music I can hear or think or feel...
It...
It...
It's beyond explanation.
That's why I sit in my room.
Late
At
Night
And just listen.
"O Essence Of Negligence!
Myriads of mystic tongues find utterance in one speech,
and myriads of hidden mysteries are revealed
in a single melody;
yet,
alas,
there is no ear to hear,
nor heart to understand."
-Baha'u'llah, founder of the Baha'i Faith
From the translated work "The Hidden Words".
