In Praise of Disharmony

The moon tonight is a broken saucer; out of the dark

comes the startling croak of a raven, all else silence

save for the whisper of earth to the heavens; up there,
the sudden fire of a dust-speck hurtles for one

spectacular moment across the night as if the bird,
the moon and the soft gossiping of the grass, were all
an interlacing, one hustling the other into being. Body
brims at this, with a sense of well-being, as if the flesh

were a cello, the strings vibrating to the profound, slow
notes of J.S. Bach’s Suite number one in G; an urgent
need to praise is the alpha and omega of a piercing
instant, touched with the intensity of an almost

stillness, to be one with a fractured world, suffering wars
and dreams, under the great blank stare of the infinity.



John F. Deane




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