Pythagoras
Pythagoras, of
old
heard in his
waking dream
the
ancillary
prographs of the
golden word.
the
petty petitions
of the
worm-eaters
as yet deferred
were
as the dust
unformed on my
piano
wrapped in its
plastic sheet
lest
the music escape
and
make this heart
more wretched
to
lose its unsung
beat.
space to him was
iridescence
a
scale of ordered
rhapsodies
spiraling with
half-furled
wings
in
the
chromathematics
eternal being
sings
with
such grave and
sweet restraint.
when he had
reached the
tower of his
reasoning
he
found the steps
back down
were
black and white
triangles and
ringed with
fright.
what
was the Greek
for the coming
do, re, mi?
he must have
cleaned
his trembling
fingernails
to remind
himself that he
was mortal.
Pythagoras of
old
saw
in his waking
dream
the
universe - a
cosmic harp
with
stars for
streaming notes
and
space for
non-existent
things:
the
precessions of
the equinox
the
cadence of
planets holding
hands
in
their stately
dance of epoch
which demands
converging rays
of every circle
sun-centered in
wonder
his thought yet
thunders down
the centuries
as
some wild
exultant Pegasus
scattering
bright
hoofprints
in
our wincing
minds.
let me tell you
that
his
eyes in death
became light
mirrors of fire
and
in his visions
and his desire
he
was blinded and
could not speak
yet we see
ourselves
reflected
in the square of
his hypotenuse
singing mutely
do, re, mi
though not, of
course, in
Greek.
a.o.howell