The Ghost of Grieg
Imagine that you are an instrument
Who offers only atmosphere, no flow
Of melody, no hint of what you meant
In beauty or of brass notes curved to glow
Across the universe, beyond the notes
That carry concepts that a poet would
Convey in ambiguity like boats
With sails of see through gold, or shittah wood
Containing sacredness of Christ’s first voice
Creating, you a cymbal brush-scraped with
Bunched sterling filaments. Would you rejoice
In mist-like sounds as echoing as myth?
You seem the mists on Highland lochs or, far…
A fjord-born clinging Norway mountain haar.
~ Phillip Whidden
