The reverb of genius echoes through time, where staves, with their notes, gently whisper to Harmony:

 

“Skip a few lakes, tread a few forests, 

to meet human tears,

in the dark green morass.

With a timbre so sweet, neither ears, weeping, miss,

what lies tucked ‘neath the void, where loss and redemption kiss.

 

Where men and women cry oceans for sound, 

Thy soul beckons forth, to seek what lost

may turn found.

Fingers bleed and draw script, onto violin’s varnish, 

and where the luster lost ground, 

Thy chord’s kiss heals the tarnish.

 

Again, by Harmony surely, and by thee, Her master, enduringly,

all men reach forth to see how scurrilously,

their spirits be fed,

so well, and so hurriedly.”

 

Yet, allow me now sing to thee, Harmony’s master, myself,

and give rest to the rest, of what reverb recounts,

 

that what word, a man writes to thy works, is but a death where scribbles wither, 

yet I beg thy kind ear, to a different sound here,

where thy mystery, so cherished, bleeds itself thither:

 

Thine ancient scores sing of ornate patterns, difficult to tell: more painting so elegant, or music, so luminous? 

More the brushstroke, or more the bow’s bite? 

More the waves of ink she spoke, or more the voice in flight?

 

What times, in castle Köthen,

brought the dear, sweet Brandenburgs,

such eternal stage curtains?

Those festivals of string, horn, flute,

and harpsichord clear, astute,

Moved even callous men, like me,

To look upward in light, and be free.

 

What peaks, in the Alps, may scare

the St. Thomas spire, that housed thy care?

For, what vanity, with which men gauge height,

Can hold claim to Cantatas’ angels, in flight?

 

Hear me, a final time, bring you a word, though I will these scribbles die, 

that they may rise again to the realm, where my dearest birds fly.

 

Never was a life so dearly held, than that where the death of good things remains:

 

tucked ‘neath the void, where loss and redemption kiss, where joy has its hour, and nothing endures amiss,

 

where love burns, a fire, and hope culls a brazen liar, 

who would dare speak so little 

of how, the horror, 

you made brittle,

 

where men, though morose, once for all find:

 

their one resplendent comfort,

in a gazing, sonorous mind.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Ode to Johann Sebastian Bach”, 07-24-24

 

© 2024 by Ryan Vincent Smith