Monday, September 12, 2011
Clair de Lune
From Yvelines, an ode to Paul, who stands in the looming calm of the sad and beautiful moonlight, the same moonlight where the disillusioned revelers have lost faith in their false happiness. How can the moon, the same moon that makes the birds dream in the trees and the fountains of hardened man sob in the ecstasy of despair, impress him with morose longing for his own soul, and that of another? The flowers of evil inspire him to that empty life where the quiet peace of the moon ambiguously casts its rays on the souls of the damned and the innocents of nature. The melody pulls and pushes, a finer tribute to the sadder life, and I'm left apart.
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This was written while listening to a version of Debussy's Clair de Lune. It's my liberal interpretation of his interpretation of Paul Verlaine's poem, which I think was likely inspired by Beaudelaire, so there are some little allusions in there. Confusing because of the complicated people involved who I acknowledge as great artists, but . . . I'm left apart.
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