• Brendan Graham Dempsey

Entry 6: Interlude - cathedralmusic


Ah, Cellist, cellist, celestial > caelestis > caelum--heavenly Cellist; heavensong singer, what are these sweet tunes? This music? Choiress and destiny-composer, angelheaded abbey-Echo, O! Sweet temple resonances, these. This. This music. Filling arches and arches up of my cathedral home. Vibrations holy with the stone and light, like subtle colors wafting welkinward.


There you sit, knees splayed to hold the oaken sacrament, and playing it toward heaven like a sacrifice, eyes bent on skylights--now bended, solemnly shut, and quivering hand poured over resinwood fret's filaments--ffffffzzzzz---plying Sound for miracle and all the earth's atonement.


Bow, soft, these most tenderest tones, exalted up to Christ, to Lord Smiling, buddhas, to turning arcs and turning gyres of heavenlight's gearing spirals thither Dimensionless.


Saw your string and offer it, goblet-like, Godbound through the sugar glass, dear daemon. Dionysian circles wend their workings toward the seraphim, dripping blessing. Eye them with your wish, your existence' mission: To play sound at stone, to blend volume with the cataclysm, working redemption through cathedralmusic.


Oh, angel, oh, expend your tortured art for this world. Play wood to the bone of depths, and wrench eternity out of the starkness, star-eyed, begging.


I see you, brow-racked, eye-cheeked, rosy-wanton, willing, willing with every fiber the Great Something, eyeing the old Wall of Ages and casting your spell at it, eager, breathless, holy, wretched, endless, blessèd, beatific-radiant in the cast crepuscular beam of the white Rose window, bowing.


And all along the walls of this old stone cathedral: sound, reverberating, rising up the ribbed arcs toward the Light.


This is how the world is saved.


I will build this temple for your Music. I will gather stones from the fields and lay them up, brick by brick, crypt by crypt, Coyote worship, consecrating, wild, steer-eyed, offering and acolyte-led lightning-feeding fealty, darshana-stupid, and sizzling tip-ends of jasmine incense for the ritual murder of that saw bow broken-slaughtered against sawed woodcello F-holes, weeping.

Who?



GOD



And the doors to the cathedral blown open---







- Leaf

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Contact Brendan at generationofleaves@gmail.com