from Mozart's Third Brain
CVI
Which is the time of music? I know I exist inside it, liberated
As if this were the core: the dance, the throat, the instruments
Listening, I play Unknown music grows out of the instrument
Time grows out of me All the more clearly, out toward the outermost tips of the galaxies
I am a comet, I imagined when I was little, dashing
around the schoolyard, arms outspread behind me like wings. . .
Stalin, too, loved Mozart Thus even these forms are
completely empty Interpretations know no limits
Nor shall we have any guarantees Art is
not an insurance company, not a question of trust, and thus not politics
Disorder is complete In Dante I find the word modern
The deep architecture of heaven, in its turnings In music
I hear its deep mysteriousness I hear its openness
The birds, in their movements over the planet's surface I see the cranes,
on the banks of Ljusnan, on the field of brown earth, between
flat patches of snow The water dark, streaming Heaven's abyss
moves The fragile, stinging stars rise How do we
touch one another's souls In severity's order In what can only be grace
The skinny woman of about 50, in the May Day demonstration,
who said, never again would she vote for the Social Democrats
All over her face and body she bore the mark of someone betrayed
Who speaks now for the lowest? And in which language?
Karl is dying now M was there yesterday, to help out with
the shelves for the LPs Karl lay in bed the whole time, did not want
to or could hardly speak, but was there mentally Maybe it's
the morphine, I said, that's making it hard to focus, intellectually
I got the impression, said M, that Karl has now decided
it is time I recall the severity in Karl's face, the enormous
seriousness, the first time I was up at the offices of Aftonbladet,
in 1967, with the poem, "To the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam";
he read it in my presence His probing examination, his concentration
How I wondered if it would hold up In the end almost
nothing does Except for what exists in the time that is of eternity
The music deeper and deeper toward darkness The prelude to Siegfried,
the tubas, the basses Again in Mahler, Scelsi How this touches
Europe, invoked also in Dante, in The Paradiso The third
age will come, according to Joachim de Fiore But this, too,
will suffer decadence, before perfection in the Last Judgment Here
all the ages move more rapidly, everything blended, confused Realms
succeed one another Within each human being his time The vector cloud of times
moves, in the stream of people Under the mountain of the heart hubris grows