THE INHERITANCE OF THE WORLD

IN BELL RINGING IS THE INHERITANCE OF THE WORLD,

AN INQUIRY INTO THE PLACE AND LEGACY OF THUMB PIANOS

Music runs all of the time, everywhere,

I have known this since the day of the cymbals,

so long ago, now, it comes up in the forge,

emerging from fire, before the hammer.

Along with the surprising accompaniment

with the bells, and their strange alloys,

diversity in sound survives

under the surface of the empire, ringing.

I live in the country of Ella and Miles

in the era of Bob Dylan. To be sure,

this is still whispered out of hearing

of the cognizanti writing their papers.

It's a big world, isn't it.

A big world made up of nothing but music

and all of its silences. Living

in the land of song carries with it

vast invisibilities, moving you

at all times. My country

is not a safe place. My country

is not a safe place, either.

Harmony is not sameness.

Oh, the pearl work inlay on guitars.

The resonator. The guitar is under stress

even at rest. The best ones are built

at the edge of self-destruction.

Look at the yellow and gold

about to make a match.

Watching Janis in those old clips

feet stomping the floor, her foot

separating from the heel of her shoes

to make a better hammer hitting the floor,

she is not yet 27, but she's nearing

the time of her leaving, already singing

break another little piece of my heart.

On a day like this, one is tempted

to say, I just listened to all the music

of the world. Madera de mi tierra.

Salute the four cardinal points.

Shakuhachi inseperable in its roots

from early modern Japan.

I don't have any remaining tears.

Noh masks and flutes, staging the sacred.

Kultrún drum of the Mapuche

where the healing of the machi took place,

where I was born after the reading of the urine.

So many instruments running through

walking ears, ears for the people.

Even the walking stick a drum.

Jim Bodeen
2-3 December 2017