Whisper your twelve decibels of love
to drown the heavy traffic's ninety-four.
Not for me the seven score
of jet or heavy metal
(though some love these
when thresholds ease
as hearts recalibrate their scales).
Outside is only amplitude
the loudness lies within
where pain and impercipience
define its narrow range.
A subtle change
of pressures in the air
frets through the fine combs of the ear
and makes no greater stir
than would a wayward lock of hair.
This is the aural frontier
where medium and creature meet,
where comb and hair in silence
turn base configurations into sound -
perhaps the most disfigured sounds on earth,
or Graham's 'one good sound',
the music nature makes occurring.
So now a reservation as I find myself preferring
even megadecibels (in patterned regularity)
to any soft dishelvelment of noise.
I will not hear the scream Munch heard,
so magnify for me the sound of birds
and cherish above all,
the sound of love.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...