Primal Hymns
“Though we are seldom certain that a text is accurate, though we cannot approach its sound, invent its musical accompaniment and ceremonial, join the general audience . . ., or affirm that something that is said is literally true, we do understand what is true in a sense, and in what sense it is true. Yet we must retain an awareness of the otherness of the cultures we are exploring.” ~ Michael Schmidt, The First Poets
A glass filled with the mists of pond or lake
Fulfils a different meaning from a spring
That falls through Doric sunshine. There’s no ache
In such a stream across Greek rocks. Men sing
In dialectic tongues arcane and doomed
To sound oblivion and do not think
Their language will be lost. Meanings assumed
In mysteries of altars shrivel, shrink,
And disappear. Sacred things evanesce
But still their truths remain, their music true
As music ever was. We’re left to guess.
This is like wishing the meaning of blue.
..We comprehend imperfectly like white-
….Sheathed virgins on the torn blood wedding night.