Sounds like it was recorded
in a garage, piano
chords bounding and disappearing
in a vast chamber, the roof
lifted, his figure coiled, low-
boned, nocturnal. Through spaces
the original intention forms
and is painful, erudite,
collapsing; he would walk around
his instrument, measuring
a distance of centuries,
matching a brilliance he would keep
to himself until clarity
would compel him to begin.
Master or servant, listening to
a voice which would confuse such
distinctions, needing those rests
which swell into deafness, then
pounding back with something like fear.
What risks you will take when you
retire, your knuckles stilled against
a perfect machine, supple,
aloof, dignified. Accolades
are always shared: yours defend
the paradox of music
and silence, the score of a grave
like a muse you must master.
[The Fiddlehead No. 187, Spring 1996]
No comments:
Post a Comment