top of page

Tufts of Tunes – Permitted Gods[1]

Musicians Strike the Instinctive Poem[2]

I like to Listen to Music, but only the kind you Play – Absolute Music,

The kind where you Feel someone Rattling the Gates of Heaven and Hell[3]

He maketh his own Sunrise, when he Sings – and turns the Dusty Earth to Paradise[4]

He isn’t Singing to us: he is Singing to Please Himself – not even that: he is Just Singing[5]

All the Untapped Mysteries and Truths of Music gather in a Song of Beautiful Confusion[6]

I would liken you to a Sleep without Dreams – were it not for your Songs[7]

Not Words – but the Highest Coinage of Human Speech Melted Down –

Become Pure Song, something Vilely, almost Murderously Gorgeous[8]

The Savage Music such Golden Mouths are Sworn to Utter[9]

My Bones are Frail – my Song Grinds Stone[10]

[1] Emily Dickinson, Of All the Sounds Despatched Abroad

[2] Wallace Stevens, The Auroras of Autumn

[3] Hermann Hesse tr. Damion Searls, Demian

[4] Frederick Tennyson, Skylark

[5] George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

[6] Nancy Caviale, The Song

[7] Langston Hughes, Ardella

[8] Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince

[9] Denise Levertov, Seers

[10] Ghassan Zaqtan tr. Fady Joudah, Strangeness

bottom of page