Each word's a chord,
A tone, a colour,
Juxtaposing images and sounds
In harmonising order,
Assonance the flats to mollify the song
The plangent plucking of a harp,
Half rhyme I use
To vary the length and pitch of lines,
And introduce a complex contrapuntal strength.
As one creating landscapes
Uses tones and focal points
To give perspective to the whole.
The soul is in the metre,
Echoing below as some elusive rhyme,
The constant footfall
Of the Alexandrine.
Subtle variations are allowed,
But still its shadow must remain,
Governing the flow of each refrain,
To counterpoint again.
Or do we write just as we feel,
Our instinct using patterns
Once instilled by memories
And habit, in ignorance
Of analysing and retrospective theories!
Perhaps the great G Minor Fugue,
Or Eliot's lyrics,
Or the prosody of French verse lurk
Within my mind's
Subliminal self and do the work!
What puzzles me is how the songs begin
Not how they end
Or the subtle tricks played
In between created
Like movements in a dance.
Remote control, I'm told,
Precedes each thought,
So perhaps we ought not claim
The credit or take the blame!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem