Meditações - like water pouring over time itself

In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas

In the house of the voice of Maria Callas  

We hear the baby’s cries, and the after-supper  

Rattle of silverware, and three clocks ticking  

To different tunes, and ripe plums  

Sleeping in their chipped bowl, and traffic sounds  

Dissecting the avenues outside.   We hear, like water  

Pouring over time itself, the pure distillate arias  

Of the numerous pampered queens who have reigned,  

And the working girls who have suffered  

The envious knives, and the breathless brides  

With their horned helmets who have fallen in love  

And gone crazy or fallen in love and died  

On the grand stage at their appointed moments—  

Who will sing of them now?   Maria Callas is dead,  

Although the full lips and the slanting eyes  

And flared nostrils of her voice resurrect  

Dramas we are able to imagine in this parlor  

On evenings like this one, adding some color,  

Adding some order.   Of whom it was said:  

She could imagine almost anything and give voice to it.

Steven Orlen