• ‘What is music?’
    A little boy asked me that today.
    I bent down so that our faces were level
    And then I said to him with a smile,
    ‘Why do you care?
    Out of so many people today
    Why do you care?’
    He looked back at me
    His eyes too thoughtful for his age
    And he said right back to me,
    ‘Because I want to make good music.’
    I liked that answer, and I told him so.
    He was happy and he smiled.
    ‘Take my hand,’ I said, ‘and walk with me now
    And I will show you those things that proper music make.’
    He put his small hand into mine and came with me.
    I didn’t know what to make of this, he trusted me.
    But I led him along, and as I did I pointed out
    Some of those things that proper music make.
    ‘Music,’ I said, ‘is the harmony in the world
    Brought together to create a myriad of sensations.
    Music is our footsteps on the ground
    Music is my walking with you.
    Music is that ancient couple over there
    See how elderly they are, yet they see each other with such love?
    Wouldn’t you like to grow up and be like them, to be your own music?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would like to be my own music.’
    And I thought and said that that was good.
    ‘Music,’ I said, ‘is the aural occurrence
    Between a beginning and an end, defined as whoever would.
    Music is the traffic in the early morning hours
    Music is the wind moaning in the trees at night.
    Music can sound like anything you want
    You and I are everywhere, surrounded by music.’
    And the little boy looked up at me, this tall kindly stranger
    And he said with a sigh, ‘Anything I want?’
    ‘Anything you want,’ I heard myself reply.
    ‘Music,’ I said, ‘is a blending of sounds
    To form something new, be it lovely or horrible.
    Music is the homeless man earning his meals by his guitar
    Music is the sighs and groans of those who make love at night.
    Music is the cadenza of a well-known symphony
    It can even be formed with human voices
    That tickle the ears or disturb the mind; it will depend.’
    The little boy tugged on my coat sleeve at that moment.
    He beckoned and I obediently went down on one knee.
    He regarded me solemnly, with an adult calculation
    And finally he asked me, ‘Would this be music?
    The shouts and screams of enraged voices
    The awful songs of the drunks next door?
    The yowling shrieks of a cat in heat
    The sound of an empty beer bottle being broken?
    Being hit everywhere until one can’t move
    Or simply being touched where one feels violated?
    The low cooing of the prostitutes on the street
    Or the sighs that tell when the drugs have kicked in?’
    I looked again closely at this little boy
    And for the first time I saw the scars and bruises.
    That this little musician sported on his body
    He had lived a short yet hard life, it was easy to see.
    I felt so much pity for my newfound friend
    Yet his eyes stared back proudly, daring me to speak.
    And I thought for a moment, and took his pale hand
    I told him, ‘Yes, this is music too.’