TUNE WITHOUT MUSIC: FOR MARTIN WYNNE
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We knew his name, but few of us the man
We know his tunes, but few of us his voice
Or his playing.

He taught the music, and inspired so many
But never wanted fame for himself: enough to know
That what he gave so generously
Would be passed on by those
Fortunate enough to receive his gift.

While it had him, the world
Could have been kinder to him; now
He is beyond all caring, leaving sadness
To those who grieve amidst memories
That for the moment hurt and do not soothe.

The fiddle gathers dust, and manuscript paper
Once intended for another brilliant reel 
Turns yellow in the drawer. 
The songs are stilled now, at least
To our poor limited hearing.

But in the Presence of the very Source of Music
Though recently arrived, no doubt he already sits and plays 
With the tradition's finest from the days gone by.
Free of pain, free of tears, knowing now
That the Bronx and Buffalo and even Sligo
Were really places in a dream, and all the people
He loved, and remembered, or forgot
Were part of the same dream...

And the music, even half-heard, out-of-key,
Drifting listlessly from drowsy Bronx pubs
To greet the baffled sun on humid summer mornings
When sensible folk were asleep, or putting on the coffee
Before early Mass: that was part of the dream too.

And now, in perfect freedom, he knows for a certainty
What he always believed with a musician's faith on earth;
And he sees with no half-blinded mortal eyes 
That Music, like a living thing, has a heart
That shares its pulse with Creation itself...

Now he sees and loves its deep Reality, and rejoices
That he left us his tunes to show us 
At least part of the way.

No need to pray for him to have a seat
At God's right hand - he has a better place,
A well-deserved place that was his 
From time's beginning:
A hard chair on the session cloud 
Between Coleman and Lad O'Beirne.

No golden throne of glory could make him happier.


- Bill Black
January 1998