-- Journey of the Minstrel’s Lute --

By John Herlihy

The minstrel’s lute boasts a fine lineage,

Son of the renowned Persian barbud.

Grandson of the famed Arabic oud,

Distant nephew of the Roman pandura.

Minstrels plucked gently with a fine quill,

Medieval troubadours echo sweet music still.

Subtlety of the lute supported improvisation,

Music sounding its freedom without measure.

Pluck-a-pluck went nimble fingers over strings,

Simple accompaniment as the minstrel sings.

Preludes, dances and intabulations, oh so fair,

Polyphonic fantasies filled the silence of the air.

Ancient airs drawn from shadows and light,

Dancing on tiptoes across the starry night.

The lute heard as North Wind stirred trees,

Invisible, inaudible, whispering tales with ease.

The North star shines brightly, echoing refrain,

Harmonious vibrations enter hearts to remain.

Expressive of what is seen and what is unseen,

Those who see being blind to visions of the blind.

Evocative of silence heard and silence unheard,

Fading echoes lingering, leaving sentiments behind.

Repeating lyrical music born of rhythmic hymns,

Music as light perceived through stain-glass prisms.

Music that speaks volumes without use of words,

Music that echoes rhythms of ancient song birds.

Music that conveys innocence and does no wrong,

Music that journeys vast distances to sing a song.

Music as a beautiful white stallion panting in felicity,

Music to accompany marching feet of pageantry.

The minstrel never alone, the lute his companion,

Always steady, always sure, a friend to the end.

Sympathies and sentiments drawn from taut strings,

That tug and pull and even caress the heart strings.

The notes as keys unlocking doors of perception,

Visions unveiled revealing splendors of other worlds.

The lute lays at rest, strings taut in quiet repose,

Awaiting the moment when music as a river flows.

Quiet indeed with profound silence that is fulfilling,

Silence that promises to stir listeners’ hearts thrilling.

A promise akin to fire illuminating the candle’s wick,

Melodies as pulsating as the flames on a candlestick.

Heaven and earth glory in magnificent pageantry of sound,

As the flags of sovereign nations blow in colors profound.

Beyond the seven hills of Stamboul, across the Black Sea,

Across the Mediterranean and the Aegean the notes flee.

Through the plains of Hungary and the Steppes of Ukraine,

Across Jerusalem, Babylon, Makkah, the music made plain.

At the sound of the music danced princes and potentates,

Pashas, shahs and sheikhs with an enthusiasm that liberates.

Atilla the Hun, Kublai Khan, even Suleiman the Magnificent,

Listened attentively to the lute’s music until the notes spent.

Across the Danube and Euphrates rivers flowing into history,

As melodious, melancholy notes of the lute call forth mystery.

What is music down thru the ages but a blessed sweetness.

What is the serenade of the lute but an offering of kindness.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Saturday 10 June 2023