"Literature is the orchestration of platitudes." --Thornton Wilder

The conductor dips his baton earnestly
Over wisdom, bound in calfskin leather.
He directs the violins to swell, in indication
Of an elegant choice of character. Printing
Presses chatter, the percussive counterpoint
To scratching of nibs on parchment;
The ampersands hang like quarter rests between
Adjectives and measures. Clarinets wend
Their melody in the margins, framing
Discourse with sensory illumination. He hangs
His head and summons alphabets to join
Octaves, rearranged in brilliance. He creates
A majestic progression of pen, bow,
Brush, and reed, a symphonic collective
Of divinity, wrought from words and notes.
We witness in this hall the transformation
Of cliché and tune, for library and orchestra
Have become reconciled to glory.
We cannot distinguish book or song,
For both have ripened into miracles.

01/24/2004

Posted on 01/24/2004
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