PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

[At Skierniewice, Friday, 9th Nov 1888]

I

Some forty-four years past, I lost my sight
to what has been unending, starless night.
But those around me are, always, quite kind;
and, at my age, I still have most of my mind
intact.  I sing, only in privacy:
an elder voice cracks on the melody.
They tell me that Chopin took inspiration
from my style for the second movement of
his F-minor Concerto.  His pure love
was far more than I ever could deserve.
They tell me also, that he did not swerve
from loving me; that even Madame Sand
said, relatively, he was only fond
of her while yet in love's fealty to me.
Perhaps that should seal it conclusively,
and we can turn back to our conversation.

II

The Second Movement will be heard tonight:
a concert, that pronounced its dedication
to me as Chopin's friend; thus advertised.
Tickets sold out quickly, so greatly prized
is all his music.  My anticipation
is keyed up:   this will be the very first
time I have heard the Second Movement played;
I did not go (although invited to)
when our small local orchestra rehearsed
it.  No, such sessions should be private, so I stayed
at home.  Intrusion is not what I do.
In fact, I am a little bit afraid
that these old ears will not have heard it right.

III

I wonder; oh yes, my imagination
suggests this for a brief consideration.
Think back decades; a spring dusk, by a pond,
at Nohant (the farm owned by Madame Sand),
did she, on that fine evening, hear him play
(just for amusement) the piano's part.
And did hearing accelerate her heart?
And did her soul become "carried away?"
No, I have not heard it.  I have confected
this small scene just because of what they say
in teasing hints of what should be expected.

IV

How to describe that perfect melody?---
the theme that starts with E flat then to C,
then D flat, C, and B flat.  Such perfection
is more than some mere melody's connection
to sound upon the rapt, listening ear.
And, as I heard, I thought I saw him near,
standing in my view, like a shadow first.
Then the darkness, like a mist dispersed
beneath the glow that sparkled from his smile.
And somehow, we were once more young again.
He took my hand, and we went for a walk
through some nearby park, on a well trimmed lawn.
(My modest, ground-length skirt slyly concealed
that I had left my rigid shoes behind;
I knew that my beloved would not mind;
nor keep from glancing at my stockinged feet).
We were not long together, not long gone.
During the coda, I think that I reeled
just when the basoon and piano meet
at D flat's soft, gentle, subdominance.
That happens, in the whole piece, only once---
composed within the chamber of his soul,
a single glimpse, sublimely beautiful.

Starward

[jlc]