What turns sounds into music? What makes a poem a poem? What cages a phrase in mind where it sings continually? Why for me, not for you? Why yesterday and not now, sometimes not always? Why in the jukebox of my dreams?
If music – or musical words – touch you, such questions will not let you alone. It’s like falling in love – why her – imperatively her – and not that other? Some people are impervious, oblivious: one almost envies their indifference. For love hurts, distracts, detours us from more prudent goals. Without love, I might have been a banker and earned gzillions – my life choices seldom made practical sense. When I fall in love I fall hard, like a shot bird – I cannot keep my place on the branch. When I need to compose a poem, I need to, get out of my way!
There is a musical phrase that stabs me every time. It comes in the second movement of Mozart’s Concerto for Flute and Harp, K. 299. The concerto first to last is exquisitely pleasing, but with this phrase it becomes essential nutrition for my soul. The first part of the first theme has a sweet, dreamy lilt that we relax into like Barcalounger or overheated swimming pool: Ahhh, that feels nice. But then, the second part of the theme dips – ever so lightly – into a sorrow that feels immense, before reverting to polite pleasantness. Our glimpse of this sorrow is fleeting, the matter of a few seconds, as if through a door inadvertently left ajar, then the door shuts: but the glimpse haunts, those tears beneath the smiles.
That is the instant when sound becomes music, like becomes love. I try to explain the effect, but really there is no explanation, the music afflicts with the force of truth, and it may not you, for susceptibilities differ. The phrase plays in my dreams, yet I must hear it again in my ears – and again. Life feels incomplete without it.
A mystery – for which there is no explanation, no known cure. Analysis chases frantically after the fact, panting, stumbling, stuttering. This little poem of Emily Dickinson affects me similarly:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published“Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all -
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedAnd sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -And sore must be the storm -That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm -
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedI’ve heard it in the chillest land -And on the strangest Sea -Yet - never - in Extremity,It asked a crumb - of me.
What could be simpler, almost a nursery ditty? Pretty Hope, like a bird on a branch, sweetly singing. Always. Nice!
But then – a storm breaks – unexpectedly – terrifyingly – fierce enough to force bird (and hearer) indoors from its fury. Take cover! But is the storm scary enough to “abash” our brave little bird?
No! The bird has never deserted its hearer, who has suffered, it’s now revealed, as few have suffered – “in the chillest land… on the strangest Sea… in Extremity.” Brave bird! Brave hearer (seemingly so childlike and mincing, yet so sturdy). And the brave bird has asked nothing in return for its heroic generosity, not “a crumb.” Brave, brave – our hearts go out to each.
My explanation… explains nothing. No more can love be explained. Each of the poem’s sixty-eight words and curious punctuation marks contributes to the effect. Here is what makes a poem a poem – I get it! But what is “it”?