Pythagoras

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Pythagoras

Pythagoras, of old

heard in his waking dream

the ancillary prographs of the golden word.

the petty petitions of the worm-eaters

as yet deferred

were as the dust unformed on my piano

wrapped in its plastic sheet

lest the music escape

and make this heart more wretched

to lose its unsung beat.

space to him was iridescence

a scale of ordered rhapsodies

spiraling with half-furled wings

in the chromathematics

eternal being sings

with such grave and sweet restraint.

when he had reached the tower of his reasoning

he found the steps back down

were black and white

triangles and ringed with fright.

what was the Greek for the coming do, re, mi?

he must have cleaned

his trembling fingernails

to remind himself that he was mortal.

Pythagoras of old

saw in his waking dream

the universe - a cosmic harp

with stars for streaming notes

and space for non-existent things:

the precessions of the equinox

the cadence of planets holding hands

in their stately dance of epoch

which demands

converging rays of every circle

sun-centered in wonder

his thought yet thunders down the centuries

as some wild exultant Pegasus

scattering bright hoof prints

in our wincing minds.

let me tell you that

his eyes in death became light mirrors of fire

and in his visions and his desire

he was blinded and could not speak

yet we see ourselves reflected

in the square of his hypotenuse

singing mutely do, re, mi

though not, of course, in Greek.

a.o.howell