music is ..

meaningful sound

well framed silence

intentionally arranged

or willingly perceived

ephemeral sonic emotions

transmitting intangible feelings

through unnavigable cultural voids

in the hope that sharing your story

might touch another being

physical vibrations in space

interpreted through linear time

with infinitely open ended possibilities

~

landscape

but ‘music’ is a human word

which we experience through our senses

within the expanding fields of what might be

lie the common place landscapes we call home 

pitch and pulse meet timbre and tone

in patterns of repetition, variation, return

chaotic stases of the ordinary unknown

these become our musical massifs

our cool rivers of sensory understanding

the undulating oceans of our searching soul

at some point pitch descends into pulse

then eventually all pulse disintegrates 

into seemingly unconnected events

separated by regions of memory

we cannot easily chart

we do not hear the wide turning outer planets

or the all engulfing resonance of our own

the liquid whisperings of a million bats

or crisply blooming spring orchids

however much we yearn to

we perceive only in echoes

the bell jar of our transparent minds

through a web of limitations

unaware of it’s limits

~

valleys

over the ages disparate cultures 

have trodden distinct pathways

within these valleys and hills

finding structures that resonate

systems that frame and guide

carefully ordered rules arise

of which notes follow which others

in regularly metered metric grids

of steadily beating hearts

we call these scales or rag or maqam

or who knows how many other names 

we have fancied up then forgotten

to help us build stepping stones

up the foothills of pitch

we measure time in beat, taal, wazn

tightroping around the flexible edges

of their carefully guarded centres

within these limits 

fresh possibilities grow

rhythm meets melody

the dance of civilisation begins

~

trees

in neatly ordered pastures

domesticated cultivars grow in lines

cousins to their wild mountain ancestors

they nourish us with perfect predictable fruits

in the familiar flavours of intergenerational song

ripening in punctual fête 

for the ceremonial preserving pot

waltzing through our seasonal sonata

in rhythms of instinctive understanding

such well trained trees are melody in genre

long cultured styles of ingrained invisibility

languages of meaning wound in sound

societies glued by shared pulse

each land unique, each moment it’s own

all rooted in traditions of collective investigation

into how it feels to be vibrating humans

bound yet free.. freely bound

~

fruit

sometimes from the simmering pot of last autumns conserve

stews a melody that sums up that particular loop around the sun

a phrase which catches a mood we desire to deeply re-taste

transmitting the throb of a stronger vein

some songs are worthy of propagation

evolving life forms in their own right

reproducing and reimagining themselves

into the next generations slowly maturing bones

these specific words to this precise tune

an image, a thought, a wish

fecund and juicy here and now

is plucked from that beneficent tree

fast rooted in the rocks and rivers

of all our darkly turning hard earned soils

gifts of the mountains and oceans

hurtling through empty space

~

remembering

how to hold such ephemeral gifts.?

we manifest machines 

who reflect our grasping

devices attempting to capture 

that which can never be held

yet thankful we are for the brief illusion 

of moments gleaning memories of that wine

in our age we also capture proxies 

of the tapestry of frequencies

that once lifted our spirits 

towards the caress of connection

now even moving images

of how those Genies were summonsed

might help us to recreate that flickering dream

in search of a new ever passing present

how lucky we are

to have friends who remember 

better then we

-

notes

in the past no such friends existed

in desperation they devised systems

to make notes about such magic

as it faded tragically into peace

black and white markings

on two dimensional parchment

hoping to capture some essence

from those all too brief waves

of three dimensional love

ebbing through time

living beings

touching the divine

striving for the sublime

reduced to lines

of ink in quill

but try they did

with passion and toil

to transmute for us that gold

mined in diligent sweat

and yet

we never can really know 

how their symphonies were truly dreamt

only refracted shadows remain

splintered though mirrors of change

-

listening

people often ask 

if they need to learn to 

‘read music’

or if they can learn

‘by ear’

as if the two are somehow equivalent

or worse still as if the later is less

music can never be learned

it can only ever be newly discovered 

in every breath, every thought

and always the ears guide

as the eyes guide art

and the limbs dance

‘techniques' can be learned, more or less

and some technique is needed

if we are to have any hope

of describing Her

as she passes

the good Lady Muse

will not be tied to your notes

any more than your clever devices

use all the tools you can gather

to help and inspire

use all the maps, landmarks and directions

roads, tracks, bridges and boats

employ whatever you can find

to guide you through the orchards

of sweet harmonic crops

on well pruned tunes

for all around old hills rise wild

green seas swell with wonders

distant stars beacon your ears

to listen beyond the translucent breeze

of what you think can be known

to share the shimmerings of your inner voice

in cadence with the un-hearable vastness of all