Pythagoras on a Saturday

Taylor comes at midmorning,
announcing, as usual.
                 
We love him and his visits,
despite and for his whimsies.
Like family.
 
Greeting Joey and Missie,
he promptly begins confessing
that he has been agitating all week
about the music of the spheres.
 
Oh, yes. Interesting, I say,
assuming my designated role.
 
With comical gestures for the baby and the dog,
he explains how, as the ancient philosopher taught,
each of the planets emits an intonation,
its pitch depending on its size and orbital speed,
and how each is positioned apart from the others
with such obedience to the mystic laws of numbers
that they combine in wondrous etherial harmonies.
 
You have heard this, I query.
 
Not yet, he admits.
Because, some have said, we hear it always.
Or its reception involves mathematical mysteries.
Or the listener is not acutely enough attuned.
 
Which you are now striving to achieve, I cue him.
And if so, what?
 
I will write lyrics for what I hear, he declares,
and blithely ignoring our reactions, inquires
of that delicious odor coming from the kitchen.

Oliver Rice | Mudlark No. 41 (2010)
Contents | Untitled Fourteen