Celebration of The Harp - Beauty in Poetry, Music, Nature

This a Celebration of the Harp as the symbol of ultra-natural beauty flowing the music of infinity. I invite you to taste, listen, savor & enjoy a compilation of a Taoist Tale, several poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson with commentaries from C.A. Cavanaugh & several inspiring images & musical masterpie, musical, ces…

I also suggest that you listen to some harp music if possible. Here are 3 of my favorites:

1. The out-of-this world music of Hillary Stagg - any of his albums, esp, the last one - Tribute
2. The Mystic Harp - Derek Bell, music in the Celtic tradition
3. The Healing Harp - Naoko Yoshino, music mostly in the classical tradition

Taoist tale of the Taming of the Harp

“Once in the hoary ages in the Ravine of Lungmen stood a Kiri tree, a veritable king of the forest. It reared its head to talk to the stars; its roots struck deep into the earth, mingling their bronzed coils with those of the silver dragon that slept beneath. And it came to pass that a mighty wizard made of this tree a wondrous harp, whose stubborn spirit should be tamed but by the greatest of musicians. For long the instrument was treasured by the Emperor of China, but all in vain were the efforts of those who in turn tried to draw melody from its strings. In response to their utmost strivings there came from the harp but harsh notes of disdain, ill-according with the songs they fain would sing. The harp refused to recognize a master.

At last came Peiwoh, the prince of harpists. With tender hand he caressed the harp as one might seek to soothe an unruly horse, and softly touched the chords. He sang of nature and the seasons, of high mountains and flowing waters, and all the memories of the tree awoke! Once more the sweet breath of spring played amidst its branches. The young cataracts, as they danced down the ravine, laughed to the budding flowers. Anon were heard the dreamy voices of summer with its myriad insects, the gentle pattering of rain, the wail of the cuckoo. Hark! a tiger roars,–the valley answers again. It is autumn; in the desert night, sharp like a sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now winter reigns, and through the snow-filled air swirl flocks of swans and rattling hailstones beat upon the boughs with fierce delight.

Then Peiwoh changed the key and sang of love. The forest swayed like an ardent swain deep lost in thought. On high, like a haughty maiden, swept a cloud bright and fair; but passing, trailed long shadows on the ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwoh sang of war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the harp arose the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rode the lightning, the thundering avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch asked Peiwoh wherein lay the secret of his victory. “Sire,” he replied, “others have failed because they sang but of themselves. I left the harp to choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had been Peiwoh or Peiwoh were the harp.”



This story well illustrates the mystery of art appreciation. The masterpiece is a symphony played upon our finest feelings. True art is Peiwoh, and we - the harp of Lungmen. At the magic touch of the beautiful the secret chords of our being are awakened, we vibrate and thrill in response to its call. Mind speaks to mind. We listen to the unspoken, we gaze upon the unseen. The master calls forth notes we know not of. Memories long forgotten all come back to us with a new significance. Hopes stifled by fear, yearnings that we dare not recognise, stand forth in new glory. Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.
~ Kakuzo Okakura ~



Emerson says, ”Beauty is the form under which the intellect prefers to study the world”. The man who best represents beauty for Emerson is the poet, and the instrument that best represents beauty is the harp. Following the Orphic tradition, Emerson often depicts the poet with a lute or a harp. When a man joins the essence of his soul with a stringed instrument, he creates art in the form of music. In his essay “The Poet,” Emerson explains this creative synthesis: ”When the soul of the poet has come to ripeness of thought, she [genius] detaches and sends away from it its poems or songs … clad with wings…. These wings are the beauty of the poet's soul”

Who but loved the wind-harp's note?
How should not the poet dote
on its mystic tongue,
With its primeval memory
Reporting what old minstrels told
Of Merlin locked the harp within, –
Merlin paying the pain of sin,
Pent in a dungeon made of air, –
And some attain his voice to hear, –
Words of pain and cries of fear,
But pillowed all on melody,
As fits the griefs of bards to be.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, “The Harp”

Black & Maple Harps