The Search

The Siren

"The comb she holds is golden,

She sings a song as well

Whose melody binds an enthralling

And overpowering spell."

- Heinrich Heine, "Lorelai"

Lost in the passion and purity of a moment of silence

I sit transfigured by the murmurs of my heart.

Wishing for the fountain of life, I sense before me

The riddle of the Earth--the beginning of desire.

To start with a note or a word--how do I create

The beginning of my work of art--my end?

What is the feeling which suddenly strikes

Deep within my soul?  Lacking awareness

I sit, trembling before the touch of his hand--

Merely the thought of it permeates my being.

Bound to the mast of desire I force

Myself to choose--to change.

We each speak from the core of our souls--drawing

on images created in moments of inspiration.

Our passion is informed by individual reasons.

Yet, do we really know of what we speak?

I sit, dumb within my solipsistic world--

A world dumb in its unreality, for

If it is dependent on will alone,

Whose will is it to be?

I sit, trembling at the faint remains 

Of ghostly images--selves forgotten.

I am no longer.  Who am I?  Where do I go?

How do I move my body without the desire for what is?

I will conquer the tempter with silence.

Even as my burgeoning boldness grows I find

Through choice-- the source of desire within me.

Joy is the result of the victory.

- from Preludes of the Mind, 2012 (2007), James Henderson