Sudden Syllaeum’s Epiphany

Instead of taking the path
of the main approach
that came into my view
only at the very end,

like a goat I climbed
a steep slope of the hill
of the ancient ruins
of Syllaeum or Sillyon

with its many dried-up wells
or cisterns on the top
and an occasional spring
still gushing from old cracks.

And thus I circled round the town
searching for its theater
to see it swanning
with its rowing seats,

and only after much of wandering
I saw it last and found its fate:
the whole theater had crushed
down from the hill in 1969—

forty-four years before, being there pulled,
I came to see that site at last;
only some Odeon rows remained—
few feathers that had failed to fall.

On the Measured Laconicism of Beauty’s Ornaments

“Three things that old music had: lyrics we could understand, a story to be told and heart.”
—Anonymous comment to the song “The Windmills of Your Mind” (1969)

Ancient theaters of Dionysus
were as democratic as the people
in those times could make them be —
if possible, as large as to hold
all the male citizens in town.

But their Odea, theaters for music,
were strikingly smaller and fewer —
not unlike adornments — addons
that work at their best
if they strike the golden mean —

neither too much nor too little
but just enough, just right
to free the inside current
ripened in fruits of the notes —
but only for the chosen few.

And so — next to the many
and their entertainment’s roar
made of masks and tails and hooves,
they had these oases to which
pure beauty came, to be
and be plucked,

and just as it is equally strange
that to learn playing music well
takes all one’s time but much less to act,
and yet, as in love as opposed to
what goes — rather wrongly — in her name,

it is so rare to be treated to those finest sounds.

Plucking on the Cord of the Neckline’s Slip

The interval (閒) is a chord,
a chord of the neckline’s slip;
there, by the rivière, turn by turn,
a serpentine flash might seem to sleep.

Or some reedy dragon with a licking flame
on the chest of leavened leaves, with breath
not unlike those buoyant pavilions of old
alighting and leaning on the lustrous lakes,

in the guise of somewhat boozy papillons,
but with manners and a genius for verse
that pluck a glint of shades from breeze.

Isn’t this how they gather our heads
and, once they do — they’d hold
and ponder — this hoard on their lap?

The Quiet Art of Pause and Beat

Like a song in which the soul
dresses herself — nearly
to a line, a point of undress,
in between a beat and a pause,

there is an art that comes about
and holds till it gives new birth
to breath — so that its return
may break off death and change

what otherwise would be lost
or dulled and mute without,
and, in that breath that bears songs,

where deeper love is growing ripe
to round and join a softened mouth,
sound and soul tremble back as one.

Being Speech—How Can Beauty Be Ever in Anyone’s Life Complete?

Under the frame of arms
radiance is being found
for a weave of wading touch.
And now, at last, you know

the taciturn and dormant,
by rising, reaching to a sight,
and so what beauty is
and what she does—

an interval souls hold within,
opened into resonance,
so you see and understand:

what the statues of old hide.
Beauty isn’t if she isn’t this—
a live unbolted speech.

I No Longer Know Who Musically Emulated The Other First—a Clavier or a Femme

How can a white darken the black
and, by its lit-up coat and glaze,
bring it up with its snowy shade?
Don’t both beauty and the soul

flee from all that’s stark and plain,
don’t they too further a taste
that both listens and speaks
in a way that suits proper keys—

hint by hint—where all that is
is their birth, yet nothing ever ends
and everything infers a Heaven’s cue?

On a nuance, defined and as finely vague,
everything on an ivoried clavier depends.
Only thus, from its deepest, silence starts to sing.

Lilies Akin to Doorkeepers Women Wear as Jewels on the Chests

Lilies’ whiteness persists
to the summer’s end —
so now its spiny rays
may attest to the birth of autumn,

already gilding those cedars
rising in the marsh, almost always
overlaid and masked in silence —
so long and ever yet that lightly

lit and slanted by the lilies’ scarcest scent
from the luminous and genteel floral face
and its necked flask holding inside still

and mystically compressed beauty’s
firelight — gems as if randomly spread,
yet when gathered to be loved and read.