Music by Conrad Aiken
My mother has a book of American poets and I remembered Conrad Aiken from my trip to Savannah (still haven’t gotten around to reading much of his stuff) so I chose one by him.
Music
By Conrad Aiken
The calyx of the oboe breaks,
silver and soft the flower it makes.
And next, beyond, the flute-notes seen
now are white and now are green.
What are these sounds, what daft device,
mocking at flame, mimicking ice?
Musicians, will you never rest
from strange translation of the breast?
The heart, from which all horrors come,
grows like a vine, its gourd a drum;
the living pattern sprawls and climbs
eager to bear all worlds and times:
trilling leaf and tinkling grass
glide into darkness clear as glass;
then the musicians cease to play
and the world is waved away.
