Bach plays in the background
as I compose this verse.
Vor deinen Thron tret’ ich hiermit
prepares my heart for what may come
heals from what has already been
note by note
yielding
words upon words
the organist channels today
a brilliance
penned long ago
now it’s Gigout
Grand Chœur Dialogué
brilliance of another kind
coming to life on the
King of Instruments
that’s what it’s called, you know.
not just by me.
The huge bellows pump
plain old air
into
meticulously machined and malleated
pipes of
wood
zinc
copper
brass
tin.
transformation
thaumaturgic
complex chromaticity compels me
– nothing primary here –
mauve ingests magenta
maroon begets marigold
no two organs the same
just like fingerprints
a child can tell the difference
an observant one, at any rate
that’s not even our organ
says my boy.
true enough.
I must be doing something right.
patterns for parenting
oft relying gratuitously and needfully
on remembrances grizzled and nascent
whatever works.
Finally
Finale
Widor Toccata
wickedly technical
wondrously triumphant
Wise Teacher,
more notes please.
I enjoy the organic imagery in this one.
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Organ-ic. I see what you did there.
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