A Muse Musing
I’m a fool. When I read, I declaim the verse! In class with classic poetry, it would aggrieve me no end as other readers mumbled through, missing the rhyme. When it came to me, I would punch the lines — accent and emphasize!
And my teacher would say, “Mmm, you don’t need to do that. We can see the lines. The rhyming is incidental.” Are you out of my mind? Sound, of course, is not the whole point — but the half of it, the better half — sound and sense, rhyme and reason.
Sound triggers magic, even if one were merely being prosaic. Reciting is rhyming pulled from the memory of seers, shamans, musicians, wanderers. So when I write, I write rhyme. Writing rhyme is right — all the better to remember through time, all the better to recite.
Rhyming is like hitting a bell. Now, there are two ways to hit a bell. One is to hit it. The other is to invite it. Invite it to produce its sound. Invoke its mysteries — alliteration, consonance, assonance, sibilance...onomatopoeia. Use any of the many magical tools, mantras, “thought instruments,” literary devices.
To recite is partly to rhyme, to punch the lines, as music happens. In the background, bells ring all by themselves — by invitation, of course.
Sound produces and invites magic because, What is “magic” but the casting of spells? And what are "spells" but magical sounds carrying magical meaning?
Take Vedic rishis, for example. There is an ancient Indus Valley Civilization magic prevalent in India and Tibet called Mantram. Along with Magadhi, the Sanskrit rolls off the tongue. Hangs in air. Resonates like a gong:
Brahma nandam parama sukhadam
Kevalam gyana murtim dwandwa titam
Gagana sadrisham
Tattwa masyadi lakshyam
Ekam nityam vimalam achalam
Sarvadhi sakshi bhutam bhava titam
Triguna rahitam
Sadhguramtam namami!
["Replete with bliss, giving joy supreme, ultimate abode of wisdom, beyond subject-object duality, as clear as celestial sheen, known to all as “That Thou Art” -- the One, abiding, pure, unmoving, reliable Seeing of all things, beyond thought, from three qualities set Free -- Good True Guide, I hail thee!"]
Sati sambojjhanga kho, Kassapa
maya samma dakkhita bhavita
bahuligata
abhinaya sambodaya
nibbanaya samvatati!
Dhammavicaya, Viriya, Piti, Passaddhi, Samadhi...
Upekkha sambojjhanga kho, Kassapa, maya samma
dakkhita bhavita bahuligata
abhinaya sambodaya nibbanaya samvatati!
Brahma nandam... and so on.
I'm a fool, ecstatic, a Piper at the Gates of Dawn, who carries a vajra in place of a drum -- committing what others might describe as senseless acts of lyrical violence.
Coleridge was a Romantic, a member of a movement, as am I! I found my niche. But I would never want to join any club...where I would have to do anything, you know, meetings and such. Why not commit to a woodland coven if it’s a club one wants? After all, it would be more fun. When I write, it is magic I am placing upon the page.
Now no one’s asked me when or why
I set aside my sword to write.
Was I a scribe in Pharaoh’s time,
Or a Sprite dangling from a dandelion?
Did I run halfway home or nearer
Some faerie-visionary, some Seer?
Or run naked chased through the briar
In time consumed by Christian fire?
A Muse muses in a museum,
Caressing scrolls — a prelude to read ’em:
Gold-leaf sheaf, parchment black, crimson ribbon...
And I peer from the upper tier,
Round the temples of Mystic Seers,
Ope’ my Eye that starts to cry
A pineal pool of dazzling light!
A Muse musing in a museum
Will come to the corridors of awe and fear.
It’s not because we don’t see ’em.
The Path bends, arcs like a pagoda
Into that sublime speechless place full of sound:
A muse-see-aummmm.
All asking, none knowing
All saying, none showing
All searching, none finding
Traveling roads that go on winding.
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