Thursday, 22 February 2018

On Listening To An Old Vinyl Record Of My Father Playing Gigges And Dompes Which Someone Had Uploaded To Youtube

I suppose it must have been 
The music that I used to hear in utero.
It reaches those parts other players can’t -
Heineken harpsichord harmony. 
Yet it doesn’t merely bathe my ears,
I’m not washed with some nostalgic flow
Of sentimental sadness, there are no tears.
The playing, crisp and clean,
Does not intermingle with ideas,
Does not influence my way of seeing.
Hearing him play Debussy on the piano,
That brings yearning for those carefree years,
But this is different, 
It’s as if my response is purely cellular,
As if this were the sound by which I came to grow,
The formation of my person,
From zygote to maturation,
And that now, as I hear,
I am re-formed, one crystal clear
Chord, drops into the saturated solution
Of my soul,
And chaos becomes order, in my entire being. 

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