1
Each of us is a hollow bone
That can fill with
the sublime truth of music,
And carried on
that wind
Our rascal selves
dissolve,
Our will-o’-wisp
trails
Shimmer insubstantial,
Like motes in a
rolling wave,
And when enticed
again into form,
We know the
miraculousness
Of simple acts.
Each step has
rhythm if we can find it,
The call and
response of life.
Each of us no more
and no less vital
Than the notes
within a symphony.
It is the
counterpoint between us
That makes the
harmony.
And shall we call
down that wind of sound?
It only works
through us if we hollow ourselves.
To find the common
thread
In the frenecy of
the marketplace
Is the gift of a master.
One needs a
different ear
To find that
melody.
Perhaps an old
sense must be deadened.
The sound of birds
in flight,
The cacophony of
monsoon rain
No less than
crickets murmuring in the night,
Or growing grass
Reaching for the
sun.
It is a kindness
(music)
Some may feel as
touch.
(Music) shows the
common taste
Of happiness and sadness.
The bottomless joy
that is beyond
That great ground
from which we spring.
We keep returning
to this place
Because the ending
always makes us want for more.
2
Zakir says “the
second half will be …
The second half.”
And how can we not
dance
When every part of
us vibrates,
And how would the
bird fly
Without the wind?
Oh, let me be the
flute
Through which your
wind blows,
And let me be the
drum
On which your
hands thump.
Zakir Hussain, master percussionist, inspired me to write this poem when I attended a free concert at Skinner Hall, Vassar College on October 7, 2012.
This incomparable musician just died December 15, 2024 at age 73. I will never forget hearing him play.
