Cruising among the Parisian salons,
Discreet and correct in dark suit and white shirt,
He scanned the room for odalisques,
Sultan of a sad and secret place;
Where was she, imagination’s siren,
Mistress and mother, black widow on the skin?
He seemed so high spirited ,debonair, and witty,
Who would suspect the melancholy beneath,
Deep in those dark gold-flecked eyes?
So much tenderness and passion yearned
For honest consummation, reticent lest
It choose the wrong refuge, the false confidante.
The slightest praise would give him courage
To return to solitude, to seek again the miracle
Of melody and harmony, fusing in a whole;
But still he would wake in the night, in despair,
Certain that all he had ever done was mediocre,
That he had deceived himself all along:-
Fool, you presume to express the inexpressible,
That which lies beyond music itself?
His supple hands touched the piano keys
With meticulous sincerity, with a horror
Of affectation and mere virtuosity;
Only the clearest, simplest, most absolute sound
Deserved to disturb the perfection of silence.
What nonchalance shot through with fury!-
The soul’s abundance conjured atmospheres.
To live and die and live again, in music:
That was the trick, a lifetime’s quest.
Could reverie make real the pure ideal?
The veiled seductress stood waiting
In the garden, among the classical statues,
Voluptuous, yet chaste, mysteriously smiling.
The game was on ,as ever, too good to end.
The greatest audacity called for the finest discretion:
Extreme compassion had a violence of its own.
If only he could make music like the light
On Lake Lugano,in summer, reflecting the snows,
To render the jeopardy of delicate things,
Subtle as a priest or a mathematician.
No comments:
Post a Comment