Preludes to The Art of Fugue
by Filippo Gorini
Conceived as a booklet to the album, these sonnets and haikus are meant to be preludes to each counterpoint and canon in The Art of Fugue.
I
Gray the soul and scourged by dirt
before the unknown, remembered gate
wrought in sand and bramble ashes
in the desert mount of reckoning.
Here know true silence
in the wake of the trumpets:
take the burrowed, rising path
through dead ways of stone
and flippant games of life, and
go. Round that furthest corner
past the struggles we avoided
glows a run-down neon scripture
upon this senseless calm. Cross
the gate, pilgrim - come...
II
The distant rote in the granite teeth
heard pulsing in the temple
neither machine or body
but the dancing of the golems.
Seek, and you shall find,
why the incessant dance, why
spirits should bind to lifeless dust,
and mirror the stars in elusion.
Mankind fell responding
to this primal invitation
of the senses with no sense, and yet
there is understanding to be had
in the restless noise of the rocks
grinding away at the flow of time.
III
Answers can only find you
in the world of perpetual solitude,
all gregarious chatter sealed outside
the waning senses: thus the oracle
is mute to dreary merchants
of knowledge; she is a vision
for the blind, she is a song
when the singing has stopped.
In this stony mausoleum
removed from the echo of time
removed from the braces of space
the way is not forwards or backwards
but the alchemy of tears transfigured
into the alien flame of prophecy.
IV
Light seeps into the eyes
the breath of a rose garden
over the earthy moss
at the edge of the thicket.
Sparse birdsong rings a message
guiding steps in zephyr sunlight
through their ventures unexpected
until they cease their moves to listen.
What does the bird speak
to the observant roses? What
secrets hides time in their
silent bloom? Vivid promise
dyes these petals, murmured heartbeat
gives flight to these feathers meek.
Haiku
In autumnal rock
motion bound to single point
the dance has no space
V
At the source of Acheron
trickles water slow
amid old stones undeciphered,
crumbling relic of shepherds
and their hearts’ beliefs
in the tales of heroes and gods.
Newborn currents clash
carrying echoes down the valley
before they are lost in silence.
If the bell should ring eternal,
its peal not stifled by reality
and the crude torment of opposition,
there would be no music...
Only death in life gives birth.
VI
In the face of the abyss
do not fare well,
but fare forward, pilgrim,
only fearing the torpid stagnation
of dignified prosperity, the commodity
of satisfied assurance that the deed
is done. Far more lies ahead
past the mighty waterfall,
regally still and perpetually dancing
with no retrospection
of its inevitable steps.
When the moment comes, and the heavens
call for heroes, remember: peace
when possible, truth at all costs.
VII
Calm, dark waters reflect the heart
cold under moonlight so terse
the hunter runs his fingers
on its countless scars,
wrinkles forbidden in the well.
Give me this water, that I thirst not
in this dreamed maze of mirrors.
Seeking finds the meaning
of senselessness: what may have been
and what has been
are one, vibrating differently
in the different dimensions
speculated by the labour of men
and only known to the gods.
Haiku
Desolated soul
circling backwards, like ripples
in the wintry dew
VIII
Mythology lost
in the murmuring shell of time
stranded at shore after the blood
was lifted by the wind
to settle again and again,
its meaning vanished.
And yet it lingers,
relic of paradox, grit
in the fumes of tears forgotten.
From these pillars
memories sing litanies
to the living and the dead,
waiting shards suspended
in the tyrant wind of time.
IX
The one rule broken
restraining men from
the knowledge of gods
and the old titan is unchained,
in darkness fiercely blazing
turbines of Pentecostal fire.
Who shall stand this dance
when shackles turn
to dust in an instant
and walls and towers
fall like chess pieces
their games trivial
in the eye of the planets
and their orbits impassible?
X
The future is a faded song
unfolding unprepared
on stranger land,
footsteps stumbling
on stones with muted voices,
its pattern even secret
to the prophets. Time
breathes air, time
lives, as we in time live
perhaps mirroring each other
under the starlight’s shimmer,
our songs, together woven,
tapestry of the Moirai
and hymn to the mysteries.
XI
Still litany of memory
sung with wavering breath
of the rarest incense that
stained those ancient pages.
Vision turns clear
through the unbearable pain
that’s toll for miracle:
where past and future gather
at some point
of a time that is not time,
Time’s fabric will be
twisted, looped, and torn
and all will be lost, and perhaps
all will be new.
Haiku
Unexpected spring
breeze warming the frosty roots
awakened in dance
XII
In the stillness of dance
the sight of death vanishes
preparing the time of silence
that clears intuition with truth:
an unknown secret
all will be as it should not
the rose and the fire - one;
the fire and the rose - one;
nothing was as it should
a familiar revelation
that clouded judgement with lies:
setting aside the space of noise
the blindness of life emerges
In the movement of prayer
XIII
...and the dance is a prayer
round and round the fire
body pulsing in ritual
under the summer stars
celebrating pilgrimage
we dance in preparation
when the final day is near
and the prayer is a dance
round and round the fire
mind pounding in litany
above the summer sands
welcoming prophecy
we pray in trepidation
when the blessed night is here...
Haiku
Embers in summer
voiceless, passing messengers...
of light, or darkness?
XIV
At the still point of the turning world
no silence like this silence
waiting frozen in ashes.
Memories lead to one end,
but to what end
I do not know.
I have no strength
to know, no will
to love or pray...
I stare at the fire
until the flame dies out
and I hear in the dark
my name
in the whispers of angels