A Reading from the Epistle of Horace the Paralytic at Corinth
for Horace Parlan, stricken with polio in his birth year, 1931
Thus, as it was, our Lord spoke: For those
who have ears, let their mouths
bleed. For those who have eyes,
let them hear the movements
of the wrist wrangling blood,
fingertip to tongue. For those
who have teeth, let them see
mountains of the moon in a bite
of wind, a bite of wind-swept
in the hand. In other words, He sayeth
that for those stricken with polio
in the year of their birth,
those paralytic of finger
and wrist — the unmovable clay
of their right hand — let them cripple;
let them cringe; let them
develop piano voicings
of particularly pungent left-hand
chords; let them — like me —
comp highly rhythmic phrases
with the right. Let them Turrentine.
Let them Mingus. Let them
Sonny Stitt. Let them play with those
one day to come. My brothers
and sisters, dear ones,
I exhort you — brethren —
in the name of the smallest parasite
safely caved
in the tucks of the ear,
let not the wind enter your mouth
without saying, This,
the aching rain.
Let not the winter wheat. Acres
of amaranth. Bushels of barley.
Let not them bend toward sun
without touching the keys
with black and white
pain that is anything
but pain. Let not
the virus of the hand —
the collective ache
of centuries of lack
of understanding
feces of bats
and pangolins —go unheard
in the wet markets. In the hydraulus
of our Roman brothers and sisters,
in the promise of Pan’s flute.
Syrinx of birds one day
inspiring a gathering
of hands in a place of smoke
and drink. The hard bop
beat that will one day express
the beauty of imbalance
between left and right
accents of the moon. Thus,
I tell you, our Lord spoke
through me
as if speaking
from inside a cup of boiling
tea. Unfurling in the agony
of the leaves. Thus, our Lord
spoke even me, Horace Parlan —
Horace the Paralytic —
into historical bones.
Where is Panayotis
of Cefalonia? He asked.
Staboliadis of Athos?
Athanasios of Thessalonica?
Even Eleftherios of Ephesus?
Thus, our Lord spoke unto me,
Horace Parlan, through the keys
of his — my — piano. The sound
of which is known only as
The History of Rats, Lice and Men.
A history of the lost chord
that he — I — somehow found. In Him.
The Holy One. Who is also me. Who
is not just Him or me or you
but the motion of the moon
throttling down stars
into the throat.
Me, your beloved Horace.
Horace the Paralytic.
In the shape of music.
In the polio pull of Pan’s hand.
In the syrinx of birds crying out
an adaptation of leaves,
an urge to sing through
crippled bark and moth marks
tearing the tender of the flesh.
The age and weight of teeth
upon a tree. The tender tearing
in the finger-bones
of our tongues. The finger-bones
our speech keeps trying to reach.