Music in her face no longer looks like it’s meant to.
On a planet bristling with extroverts and maestros,
a People’s Republic of Sound is, introspectively, proclaimed.
Magically now we are free to attend
to a voice compassionate, real pianos
have long been yearning to speak to us in.
Sonically, we revive in an intimate vitality of the nerves
and in a worldwide openheartedness of mind —
extinct since 1981 —
precisely beyond the range of purely optical vision.
Let go, Lucy says, of the solace of solid forms,
of the symphony’s crushing avalanche of time-honoured noise,
and — in this present of the Present Tense —
let me tell you as I feel it
what such music wants above all else to whisper in our ears.
Chinaman Creek 