Friday, April 26, 2013
It is sweet to hear music when the night
Is just retreating from the smoky branches
And the sun's enemies are throwing down their gloves.
Music is always reminding us whom we love,
One or two notes dissolve the auditor's mind
So we are swimming once more in the old river.
We are all failed farmers learning to play whist.
We have a lot of hands to play before midnight.
Someone else will have to worry about time.
I'm always glad when I hear that an old hen
Has been seen crossing the road at dusk.
It means our old teacher is still all right.
We keep remembering Barborossa's life.
A little whiskey fits in well with our lives.
The time of the Depression is not really over.
Poems like this amount to some form of music.
We dance for two hours. When we look up,
We see that all the musicians have disappeared.
~ Robert Bly
from Talking into the Ear of a Donkey