In Memoriam
Horatiu Radulescu
Each day finds its way back
to silence. And we make
a parallel journey. It is
the same imperative:
in silence, feelings sleep,
thoughts withdraw into depths
where they coil themselves
and wait for the moment to ascend.
I wrote a sudden poem, then suddenly
set it aside. The subjects – Rihm’s
quartets, Boulez’s sonatas, Stockhausen’s
operas – must wait, just as the noise
and stress of life must wait. I want
to sink. I want to be embedded in soul’s
soil, to be immersed in the incomparable
wealth of primal growth. I am neither hope
nor fear at these depths. Rather I witness
broken things becoming whole. I can hear
rainwater part walls of dirt, as it
slips downward and becomes earth. These things,
all of them, have become a synaesthesia
that takes us across the threshold, and we
join the others, also just arrived, and we
behold nothing. We are the Silence. It is peace…
(Horatiu Radulescu, born in Romania, migrated to France and lived in
Paris where he practiced an austere musical esthetic or he remained
silent.)
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